


Shadow of the Mountain

by menel



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle of Five Armies, Canonical Character Death, Courtship, Dragon Sickness, Enemies to Friends, Father-Son Relationship, Healing, Jealousy, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Politics, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 81,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel/pseuds/menel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During his imprisonment in the Elvenking’s dungeons, an encounter with the Elvenking’s son proves to be the most unexpected part of Thorin Oakenshied’s long journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Returning to one’s first fandom after a decade is a truly frightening prospect. So is this crazy pairing!

“It upsets you,” a deep voice said. 

It took the Prince of Mirkwood a moment to realize that the words were addressed to him, and another longer moment before he deigned to look down at the head of the dwarven company who had spoken. 

Thorin Oakenshield was standing by the bars of his cell, hands clasped behind his back as he fixed his gaze on the Prince.

It was not in Legolas’s nature to spare any time for prisoners, much less Dwarves, but he held Oakenshield’s gaze. He had heard of the Dwarf Lord’s audience with his father. Who could have missed Oakenshield’s denouncement of the Elvenking as Thorin had shouted his rage across Thranduil’s expansive halls? It would be a long good while – if ever – before Oakenshield and his company saw starlight again. 

Legolas meant to turn away, but instead he took a step downwards. The festivities were going strong in the upper halls, but he possessed a dual reason for temporarily leaving the celebration and visiting the dungeons. The first had been to check up on their unusual prisoners. Long years had passed since any dwarf had dared to enter Thranduil’s realm. But Legolas knew of the craftiness of the Dwarves. The prison cells of his father were unbreakable and protected by Elvish magic, as were the great gates to the Elven kingdom, but that didn’t mean the Dwarves wouldn’t be able to find a way to steal the keys from a careless or inebriated guard should the opportunity arise. The second reason had been the disappearance of a certain amber haired Elf from the party and Legolas’s suspicions that said amber-haired Elf had also decided to make a tour of the dungeons to check on their prisoners. The Prince had been correct, but what he had _not_ anticipated was to find Tauriel, a Captain of his father’s guard, sitting on a step in front of one of the dwarf’s cells, listening in rapt attention as the raven-haired dwarf regaled her with some tale. It had made Legolas’s blood burn that Tauriel should allow her time to be occupied in this way and he had remained standing on his step long after the captain had departed. She had not known of his presence. 

Now Thorin Oakenshield’s voice broke him out of his reverie, making Legolas wonder how long the would-be King under the Mountain had been watching _him_ , for clearly the Dwarf’s statement had referred to the attentions that Tauriel had paid to one of their company. 

Feigning ignorance had never been one of the Prince’s strong suits and he walked deliberately down the steps, his eyes never leaving Thorin’s face as he thought of an appropriate response to the Dwarf’s bold statement. 

“And why should a Dwarf care about what upsets an Elf or not?” the Prince returned, coming to stand in front of Thorin’s cell. 

Thorin’s smile grew. “So, it _does_ upset you,” he confirmed with satisfaction. 

Legolas tilted his head as he considered the Dwarf, his impenetrable gaze somewhat unsettling Thorin though Thorin gave no outward indication. He had not had any dealings with Elves since the fall of Erebor, taking care to avoid the fair race at all costs. Yet in the space of several weeks, Gandalf had managed to take a detour to Rivendell, where they had rested and replenished their strength for nearly two weeks before continuing their journey. The grey wizard had also convinced them that the quickest and least dangerous path to the Lonely Mountain was through Mirkwood and Thranduil’s realm. Thorin had disregarded the wise wizard’s advice and in his haste had strayed from the Elven path, resulting in their encounter with the fell spiders of the forest and their subsequent capture (and saving) by the wood elves.

Thorin’s resentment towards the fair race was deep-rooted, his hatred for them only growing deeper and blacker with the passing of the years. It had not always been so. He still remembered his surprise at his grandfather’s sudden refusal to return the precious gems that Thranduil had so coveted, to the Elvenking. Thorin did not know the history of those stones, but he had seen the wide-eyed wonder and desire on the Elvenking’s face as Thranduil had beheld the lost heirlooms. The sudden rush of emotion had cracked even the Elvenking’s haughty façade and it had been like watching a veil of ice fall over that ethereal face when Thror had denied Thranduil the Elf’s greatest desire. That had been the turning point in the relations between Erebor and Greenwood. Honor saw that Thorin stood by his grandfather’s decision. But once in a while, especially when Durin’s folk had first been cast out of Erebor by the dragon, Thorin had wondered how history might have turned out differently on that day when Thranduil had come to pay his respects to Thror, only to be offended by the King under the Mountain. But then Thorin would remember that it was Thranduil who had refused to help his people when Smaug had overrun them and his heart hardened against the Elvenking and his entire race. 

Now, proudly standing in front of the Elven captain who had captured them, locked behind bars as he was, the age-old enmity came to the fore as did the possibility that once things could have been different. There was something about this Elf that piqued his interest, something that he could not quite place, a hope that he had thought long dead. The captain was fair, even by the standards of his race, but it was more than his beauty and his deadly skill with weapons that had caught Thorin’s eye. 

“I suppose,” the Elf said, drawing out his words. “You must find some amusement to occupy your time since you will be my father’s ‘guests’ for the foreseeable future.”

_My father’s ‘guests.’_

Of course, Thorin thought, suddenly feeling the fool. This fair creature was the Prince of the Woodland Realm. Now that he was aware of it, the son’s resemblance to the father was striking. How far did that resemblance extend? Thorin wondered, eying the Prince’s cool façade. There was no warmth to be found in the line of Thranduil.

“Your Elvish hospitality leaves much to be desired,” Thorin noted, his voice harder than before. 

A faint smile (was the Elf mocking him?) graced the Prince’s lips. “And I suppose,” he continued, drawing out his words in the same manner. “That your experience with Elvish hospitality is extensive to make such a statement?”

The question was shamelessly loaded and Thorin should have known better than to take the bait. To speak any more might reveal details about their quest that would be unwise, but what did it matter when Thranduil had seamlessly divined their purpose before Thorin had ever uttered a word? A combination of pride and recklessness prompted Thorin’s response. 

“I know enough that the Elves of Rivendell do not keep their guests behind bars,” he almost spat. 

There was a glint in the Prince’s eye and then to Thorin’s utter shock, the Elf laughed. It was a light, musical sound, so close to song that it made Thorin’s heart gladden despite his wishes. 

The Prince leaned down, dropping his voice almost conspiratorially. “You are right, Thorin Oakenshield,” he said, addressing Thorin by his name. It was a tacit acknowledgement that he had known who Thorin was all along. “Mirkwood is not Imladris and my father is not as tolerant – nor as kind – as Elrond, Half-elven.”

_Elrond, Half-elven._

Thorin wondered at the meaning behind that strange title. The Prince straightened as though he meant to leave and Thorin inexplicably wished to prolong their conversation, to hold the Elf’s attention for a while longer. 

“I have also been told,” he continued, his voice not quite as hard as before. “That wood elves are less wise and more dangerous than their kin.”

The Prince, who had already turned away, looked back at him. From this angle, Thorin could appreciate his profile, tall and regal, graceful even in his stillness like a great cat poised to attack. Suddenly, there was the flash of a blade, so swift and so bright that Thorin inadvertently stepped backwards. The Elf had produced the sword that Thorin had carried, the fleeting light of the moon catching the ancient blade so that it had glinted with white fire. The Prince held the sword up for Thorin to see and it looked like it belonged in his hands. 

“We _are_ dangerous,” the Prince agreed quietly, as he examined the blade. Thorin waited for him to elaborate, but he did not. Instead, the Elf held the sword out to Thorin, its tip almost touching the bars of Thorin’s cell. “You say this sword was a gift,” he commented. “Then surely you must know its lineage.” 

“It is Orcrist,” Thorin answered without hesitation. “The Goblin-cleaver.”

That faint smile once more appeared on the Prince’s face. “It is a great sword,” the Elf said, almost in reverence. “One whose mere sight made black-hearted goblins tremble during the goblin wars of the First Age.” He paused. “Was it Lord Elrond who gave you this sword?” 

“He bade me to use it well,” Thorin answered. 

The Elf looked at him long and hard as though judging the veracity of his words before lowering the weapon. “A _hadhod_ would not receive such a gift from the Woodland Realm. That is how we are different from our kin,” he eventually said, the haughtiness returning. “You have offended my father greatly and it is likely that you will spend the rest of your days in that cell.” He paused and gave Thorin one more piercing look. “But should you ever leave these halls,” he continued, his voice barely softening. “I will return this sword to you.” 

Before Thorin could react the Elf was gone, more swiftly and silently than Thorin would have thought possible. It was only then that he realized that he did not know the Prince’s name.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While most of this fic is based on movie canon, I'm following the book's timeline in order to extend certain scenes.

Legolas. 

It did not take long for Thorin to discover the Elf Prince’s name, and neither was it surprising that the information would come from his inquisitive nephew, Kili. Kili had cultivated a reputation for himself among their kin as something of a smooth talking ladies man, a reputation that appeared to cross races if the attentions the amber-haired female Elf paid him were any indication. Tauriel was her name and no Elf maid was she who sat with a harp and sang songs in the moonlight. No, Tauriel was a skilled warrior and, as it turned out, one of the captains of Thranduil’s Royal Guard. Every day, she made a tour of the dungeons and every day she would inevitably stop in front of Kili’s cell where Kili would engage her in conversation. This strange blossoming friendship between his nephew and the Captain displeased Thorin. He could tell that his nephew was becoming infatuated with the amber-haired Elf and Thorin knew that nothing good could come of that. 

Jealousy and hypocrisy, a voice whispered to him. 

Thorin shushed that voice away. Jealousy was beneath him and he was no hypocrite. What did it matter that Legolas had not visited the dungeons the day after their capture? Or the day after that? Or the day after that? No doubt the Prince of Mirkwood had other duties to attend to. And why should Thorin care whether the Prince visited them or not?

Yet on the fifth day of their imprisonment, the Prince did turn up at the dungeons but he was not alone. He was walking with a dark-haired Elf whom Thorin recognized as the Keeper of the Keys. Indeed, Thorin’s eyes fixed on the heavy set of keys hanging from the Keeper’s belt as the two Elves made their tour of the cells. Legolas paused at Thorin’s cell while the Keeper continued to speak to him in the Elvish tongue. He held Thorin’s gaze but did not speak and Thorin could think of nothing to say. Eventually, the two Elves turned away and Thorin released a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. He was irritated, though for what reason, he couldn’t say. 

The following day, Legolas came back and Thorin made up his mind to speak to the Elf. He was still thinking of what to say when he realized with some surprise that the Prince was standing in front of his cell. So, the Elf had come to speak to him. 

“Will you reconsider my father’s offer?” the Prince asked. 

Thorin thought he hid his surprise well and his voice was strong and calm when he spoke. “Do you have the power to speak on your father’s behalf?” 

“I do,” the Prince answered. “And I speak for him now.” 

Thorin remained silent. In the cell beside him, he could practically hear Balin willing him to answer in the affirmative. A deal was their only chance, the wise Councilor had said. Thorin recognized the truth in his old friend’s words. Legolas was offering him an unexpected gift. He looked up into the Elf’s cool blue eyes, bluer and clearer than any sea that Thorin had seen. The Prince stood tall and regal before him, hands clasped behind his back, much in the same way that Thorin had stood as they’d spoken on the night of the Dwarves’ capture.

Thorin chose his words carefully. “I will accept nothing from your king,” he said. 

A loud sigh of exasperation came from the cell on his right. 

Consternation briefly marred the Prince’s fair features and he took a step forward. “Think well on this, Thorin Oakenshield,” he said, his voice low. “You would have been killed by those spiders if our guards had not come upon you. And if you had survived that spider attack, you would have been forever lost in the darkness of the forest, dying of starvation or perhaps suffering an even worse fate since in your haste you strayed from the Elven path. Here, prisoners though you may be, you have been sheltered and fed, and have had some time to regain your strength.” The Elf paused. “Has anything that I have said been false?” 

“No,” Thorin replied through gritted teeth. 

“Then swallow some of your pride and accept my father’s offer, Dwarf Lord,” the Prince continued. “We will escort you to the borders of the forest and replenish your supplies so that you may continue your journey. Is a bit of your pride and a handful of white gems not worth reclaiming your homeland and slaying a dragon?” 

Thorin looked at the Prince wonderingly. Legolas was offering more than his father had done. He could hear the wisdom in the Elf’s words and yet . . . 

“I will accept nothing from your king,” he repeated. 

Legolas stepped back, a cool mask falling over his face once more. He gave Thorin a small, mocking bow. “As you wish,” he said, his voice laced with nothing but derision and then the Elf was gone. 

Thorin remained rooted in the same spot even after the Prince had left. _You are a fool, Thorin Oakenshield_ , that same voice said.

“That was very foolish, my lad.” 

Balin’s voice, echoing his thoughts, startled Thorin and he knew that the old dwarf had been listening all along just as he suspected. 

“It would be more foolish,” Thorin said darkly, “to trust an Elf.”

“The son is not the father,” Balin scoffed. “Nor is the son the grandfather,” he added more quietly. “You should appreciate that.” 

“He speaks on his father’s behalf,” Thorin almost bellowed, unwilling to give in to the wisdom he now heard in Balin’s words. 

“Only because Thranduil will not summon you again and nor will the Elvenking lower himself to visit the dungeons,” Balin said wearily. “I cannot explain it, but the Prince wishes to help us. That may truly have been our last chance of escape.” 

“Not our last chance,” Thorin replied forcefully. 

He would never give in to these Elves, would never give up the quest. The leaves had begun to turn brown and autumn was upon them, but there was still time. Dwarves were a resourceful race, as were hobbits, and Thorin had not forgotten about their Master Burglar. Bilbo had not been captured with the rest of them, and though the hobbit had yet to make himself known, Thorin’s respect and faith in the little hobbit had grown immeasurably since their company had started out from the Shire on that bright May day. He would rather put his trust in Bilbo than in some Elf Prince.

~*~*~*~*~

Legolas did not return on the seventh day, nor on the eighth. And yes, Thorin was counting the days, acutely aware that the last sun of Durin’s Day grew ever nearer while they languished in these Elvish cells. He could sense the listlessness of his company. Legolas had been correct. Prisoners though they were, they were well fed and looked after. Even Bombur received an extra large ration appropriate to his size, but no more. The food may not have been fit for the Elvenking, but the Dwarves found that it agreed with them more than the Elvish fare that had been served in Rivendell. Balin said it was because the Elves of Mirkwood traded with the men of Lake-town and had also adopted some of their tastes. In any case, there was more meat in their diet, and different types of bread and cheeses that the Dwarves grew to favor. Sadly, ale was not part of a prisoner’s ration.

After the first week, the Dwarves grew bored. There was nothing for them to do but sleep, sit, walk in circles and wait for the next meal to be served. Their spirits were visibly dampening, save for Kili who had Tauriel to divert him. At one point, Balin asked the Keeper of the Keys for a pen and some parchment. The Keeper had arched an inquisitive brow, but said nothing. Later that day, it was Legolas who appeared in front of Balin’s cell. 

“What will you do with a pen and some parchment?” the Elf asked.

“I am the scholar and the scribe of this company,” Balin replied. “Whether or not our journey ends here, it must be recorded, for our history, for our people. There is little else I can do.” 

Legolas considered the Dwarf carefully. “You are the eldest and wisest of your company,” he said at last. “That also makes you the most dangerous. But we Elves value the keeping of one’s history, for our memories are long. For mortal races, the recording of history possesses an urgency that we do not share. Perhaps it is because your time on Arda is so short. I will grant what you ask, but do not abuse my goodwill.” 

Balin bowed respectfully. “I thank you for your generosity,” he said sincerely. 

Legolas nodded in return and then left, not sparing Thorin a glance or a word.

~*~*~*~*~

So Balin got his pen and his parchment and even a candle should he wish to work in the night, and the old Dwarf seemed content with his task. The others were not so fortunate. With the exception of Dwalin, who remained a cauldron of simmering rage, despondency had grown hand in hand with boredom so that the rest of company reeked of it, even Kili.

By the end of the second week, Thorin was beginning to contemplate Legolas’s offer. The _King’s_ offer, he reminded himself sternly. Truth be told, if the offer of assistance had come from Legolas and Legolas alone, Thorin suspected he would have had far less difficulty in accepting it. He held no personal grudge against the Woodland Prince, but it was to the Woodland King that he would have to kneel and recant his horrible words. And he would not do that. 

Still, the monotony of the days was beginning to dawn on him. What had Thranduil said? One hundred years was but a blink of an eye to an Elf. The Elvenking would leave them to rot in these cells, of that Thorin was sure. 

On the fourteenth day, the Prince appeared again. He was clearly not there to visit the prisoners, but was simply passing through the dungeons on his way to another tunnel or hall. Before he could think better of it, Thorin had called out to him. 

“What ails the Woodland Prince?” 

Legolas stopped in his tracks. Thorin knew his question had hit its mark. The Elf turned and looked at him deliberately. 

“For a dwarf who hates my race,” the Prince answered as he walked towards Thorin. “It is a wonder that you have inquired after my well-being . . . twice.” 

Thorin frowned. He did not recall asking after Legolas’s well-being before, unless the Elf was referring to his observation on that first night. More disturbing was the realization that he _did_ care about Legolas’s well-being. There had been no malice behind his question and the Elf had understood that even before Thorin had.

“Spiders ail me,” Legolas continued before Thorin could speak. “The spawn of Ungoliant grow ever bolder, encroaching my father’s realm. They are part of the sickness that has invaded the southern region of the forest.” 

“Is that not how Mirkwood received its name? For all the foul and fell creatures that have made their home here? For the dark magic that resides in the Dol Guldur?” 

Legolas’s expression grew hard, his beauty transforming into cold steel. “It was not always that way,” he said. “Are you so young Dwarf-King that you no longer remember the tales of Greenwood the Great?” 

“And are you so old that you have lived those tales?” Thorin asked in return. 

Tonight the Prince was clearly in no mood for jest and he answered Thorin’s question seriously. “At the height of Gondor’s power, at the dawn of the Third Age, I had already reached my maturity many times over. It was at that time that a Shadow first fell on Greenwood and men began to call it Mirkwood.” Legolas paused, his expression softening. “I remember your kingdom well,” he said quietly. “It was Thrain I who founded Erebor, long before your grandfather took the throne, before the Arkenstone corrupted him, before the fire drake laid you all low.”

Thorin had to fight down the suspicious lump that had formed in his throat at the Elf’s unexpected honesty and melancholy. But as he processed the Prince’s words and the dates began to fit into place, he looked at the Elf with new eyes. _At the dawn of the Third Age._ The Elf Prince was at least three millennia old. 

“Truly,” he heard himself mutter as though in a dream. “Your beauty is ageless.” 

Thorin glanced up sharply, horrified at the words that had fallen from his lips. But Legolas merely looked back at him impassively, not acknowledging Thorin’s strange non-sequitur of a response though the Elf must certainly have heard it. Thorin knew that Elves were blessed with keen senses, far exceeding that of the mortal races. Relieved that Legolas had chosen to ignore his comment, Thorin noticed for the first time that the Elf was holding his left hand and applying pressure on it. 

“You’re wounded,” he observed.

Legolas glanced down at his hand. “It is nothing,” he said dismissively. “A spider sting from the skirmish earlier. I am bleeding the poison out. I was on my way to get a salve . . .” he trailed off. 

_Before I waylaid you_ , Thorin mentally finished for him. “You should get that salve,” he said, disappointed that their conversation was coming to a premature end. 

“Yes,” the Elf agreed and he began to turn away. But then he stopped and glanced back at Thorin. “Perhaps we can continue this later?” he suggested, the inflection in his voice leaving his words as an open-ended question. 

It was the first time Thorin had seen anything even remotely close to hesitation in the Prince and he thought his heart might burst from delight. But he remained outwardly calm and schooled his features to their usual stern countenance. It would not do to show his enthusiasm at the idea.

“Perhaps,” he replied sedately. 

It was the right response. It did not promise commitment, but neither was it a refusal. It showed . . . potential. Legolas nodded faintly in return and then he was off. 

Thorin was bitterly disappointed when the Elf did not return later that evening.


	3. Chapter 3

Legolas did not return that night, but he came to the dungeons the following evening with no pretense other than to speak to Thorin. He even had the most unexpected gift (for Thorin could think of no other word to use) – a pipe and a small pouch of tobacco – which he passed through the bars of Thorin’s cell. 

Thorin’s surprise was so great that he looked at the objects in his hands as though he’d never seen them before and didn’t know what to do with them. 

“The craftsmanship is not very fine,” Legolas was saying as he settled on the step in front of Thorin’s cell, much like what Tauriel did when she spoke with Kili. “But it will serve its purpose.” 

“I did not think Elves smoked tobacco,” Thorin managed to say, finally gathering his wits. 

“It is a filthy and disgusting habit,” Legolas replied, his disdain plainly evident.

Thorin couldn’t help but laugh at the Elf’s description, which didn’t quite address his statement. It amused him that the Prince should finally break decorum at something so innocuous as tobacco, at least in Thorin’s eyes. But the Elf’s harsh words also told him that Legolas disapproved of smoking greatly ( _Imagine the Elf’s thoughts on pipe weed_ , Thorin mused) and yet the Prince had brought him the very objects that he despised. He smiled to himself as he opened the little pouch and put some of the ‘filthy and disgusting’ substance into the pipe. Legolas lit a match from a tinderbox and passed the tiny flame to Thorin through the bars. (Of course, the Elf wouldn’t be foolish enough to give him a tinderbox.) Thorin lit the pipe and after a few short puffs to temper the flame, he inhaled deeply and savored the tobacco. The pipe may have been lacking in craftsmanship, but the tobacco was potent. He suspected that it came by way of Lake-town. 

“How does this ‘filthy and disgusting’ substance come to be in your possession?” he asked after he had taken a few more deep puffs. He was being considerate enough to blow the smoke out in the opposite direction from the Prince, but he still saw how Legolas’s nose crinkled in distaste. 

“The pipe and the pouch were left behind by one of the barge men from Lake-town who transported goods to Mirkwood recently,” Legolas answered. “We have no use for it. You were correct when you said that Elves don’t smoke tobacco.” 

“I suppose pipe weed is out of the question?” Thorin jested. 

The withering look the Prince shot him made him laugh again.

“It is a good, strong batch,” Thorin said approvingly, nodding towards the pouch, which he had placed on the long bench that doubled as a bed in his cell. 

“Most pungent,” the Elf agreed, but there was a half-smile on his face. 

“Thank you,” Thorin said after a moment, the words not as difficult to say as he’d imagined they would be. 

The Elf nodded, looking as pleased as an Elf could to Thorin, which did not mean very much. They fell into a companionable silence as Thorin enjoyed the pipe and Legolas sat in the peaceful and contemplative manner of the Elves.

 _It is strange_ , Thorin thought to himself as he discreetly observed the Elf, _that Legolas should have such a calming effect on me._ Because ‘calm’ is indeed what Thorin felt at that moment in the Prince’s company, a kind of calm that had eluded him throughout the journey. He couldn’t even recall the last time he’d felt such peace and it deeply puzzled him that he should experience it here, in the dungeon stronghold of his enemy, standing beside his enemy’s son. He considered sitting on the bench beside the Elf but decided against it. Leaning against the wall as he was, he liked the lessened height difference between them. Thorin was tall for a dwarf and with the Prince seated on a slightly lower step, he found that he was a full head taller than the Elf in this position. He liked that Legolas would have to look up to him for a change. 

Although neither of them felt any pressure to speak (the silence wasn’t awkward), Thorin eventually inquired after Legolas’s hand to make some small talk. The salve had done its job and there was no visible swelling in the Prince’s hand. 

“We heal more quickly than the mortal races,” Legolas said, cursorily examining what was left of the bite mark on his hand. 

“Another gift of the Eldar,” Thorin said, but there was no bitterness in his words.

Legolas looked at him thoughtfully before replying. “I am descended from a line of Sindar Elves, the Grey Elves,” he clarified. “The Eldar, a term used to refer to all Elvenkind, was originally created to distinguish among the sundering of the three kindreds. Of late, it has come to refer to the great Elves of the West that still dwell in Middle-earth. Lord Elrond is descended from that line, as is the Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien. She is mighty among the Eldar.” 

“You mean there is politicking among the Elven kingdoms?” Thorin asked with some surprise. 

“There is _always_ politicking among kingdoms,” Legolas answered dryly. “Is the same not true of the seven dwarf kingdoms of old?”

“That was before my time,” Thorin answered, “though descendants from those kingdoms remain.” He thought of his cousin Dain in the Iron Hills and knew Legolas’s words to be true. 

“Each Elven kingdom has a distinct temperament,” Legolas was saying. “Father finds dealing with our kin in Imladris and Lothlórien trying. They are too refined to say it to our face, but they look down on us as crude and rustic. Though my father is descended from a great Sindar line, second only to Lord Celeborn, most of our folk are Silvan Elves or Wood Elves. We are believed to be, as you told me yourself, less wise and more dangerous.”

“I did not mean –” Thorin began, but stopped abruptly. Yes, he realized. On that first night, he had wanted to provoke and offend the Prince, and consequently to hold Legolas’s attention a while longer. 

“I did not take offense,” Legolas answered, and Thorin was beginning to wonder if the reading of minds was another Elvish gift. “There are many kinds of wisdom,” Legolas continued. “Though our kin in Imladris and Lothlórien may find us lacking in some areas, in others we possess knowledge and experience that outstrips their own thanks to our unique position here in Mirkwood.” 

Thorin processed the Elf’s words. Not only was he seeing the Prince in a new light, he was beginning to see Thranduil in a new light as well. He’d always found the Elvenking haughty and aloof even from the days of Erebor’s majesty. He still found the Elvenking unbearably smug and truly believed that haughtiness was the very blood that flowed in Thranduil’s veins, but perhaps there were more complicated reasons for the Elvenking’s façade. Thorin had witnessed how Legolas could also don the cool haughty mask of an Elven Prince, but Balin was right. The son was not the father. He had glimpsed the kindness behind the cold veneer and it made him wonder. Was Thranduil capable of kindness too? 

Thorin cleared his throat. “Crude and rustic are words I would not associate with you,” he said and it was the truth. He couldn’t imagine anyone – man, elf, dwarf, or hobbit – calling Legolas ‘crude’ or ‘rustic.’ Or Thranduil for that matter, unless they wished to lose their heads. 

“Perhaps that is because I am a Prince,” Legolas answered, voice deadpan but eyes dancing with mirth. 

Once more, Thorin found he couldn’t help but smile. “Perhaps,” he agreed. 

“I would not bore you with talk of politics or Elvish history,” Legolas said, smoothly changing the topic. “Tell me about your quest. I imagine it has been a great adventure.”

Thorin was slightly taken aback by the request. He could feel his defenses rising ( _What if the Prince is merely spying for his father?_ that voice insidiously whispered) but he also recognized that he’d fallen too deeply under the spell of the Prince’s charm. _It is a kind of Elvish magic that he casts_ , Thorin surmised, _and I am only too willing to be ensnared_.

Yet another part of him greatly wanted to recount the tale. Their company had been through many adventures and he was proud of all that they had endured. He wished to share their accomplishments, their feats and even their follies in the hope that the Prince would also see him in a different light. He believed in his heart that their journey would not end here and that the Prince himself had become part of their tale. 

So Thorin began to speak though he was not accustomed to telling tales, not since Fili and Kili had been wee dwarf-lads. Legolas listened attentively, eyes bright as Thorin’s tale unwound. The Prince was clever enough to know that he was receiving a selectively edited version, for no dwarf would reveal their true secrets to an elf, but the story was enthralling nonetheless. Indeed, the Prince was right for Thorin made no mention of Bilbo, though he had admitted that the Company had passed through Hobbiton on their way to Bree. He was also not surprised to discover that the Prince knew Gandalf, for the wizard had long been named an Elf-friend since the Istari first came to dwell in Middle-earth. 

“Strange,” Legolas said thoughtfully. “That Mithrandir should leave you at the borders of our forest. You would have fared much better with him as your guide.” Which was polite Elf-speak for _You likely would not be in your current mess_. “His need must have been very great,” he concluded. 

“Indeed,” Thorin said with some bitterness. “To abandon us in this accursed forest.” He glanced again at the Elf. He’d spoken without thinking and he truly did not mean to offend the Prince, but Legolas appeared not to have heard him. 

“It is a dangerous game he plays,” the Prince said quietly, seemingly to himself. “To attempt to redraw the map of Middle-earth in this way.”

Thorin’s gaze bore into the Elf. “You know where he went,” he stated, and it came out sounding like an accusation. 

Legolas finally looked up and his expression was troubled. “I do not,” he stated just as firmly. But Thorin translated his words to mean _I have my suspicions but I will not share them with you_. 

“It was not Mithrandir’s disappearance to which I referred,” the Elf continued. “He is the architect behind this quest, is he not?”

Thorin knew then that in his desire to share his story with the Prince, he had revealed too much. He mentally cursed his carelessness. But Legolas did not wait for a confirmation. The Prince didn’t need one. He already knew and Thorin suspected that Legolas knew perhaps even more than he did about Gandalf’s true designs. 

“Mithrandir wishes the dwarves of Erebor to reclaim their homeland,” he went on. “He wants Erebor to be a stronghold once again, to fortify their position in the north and to block the passage to Eriador now that the realm of Arnor is no more.”

“Fortify their position?” Thorin repeated. The Elf had lost him. 

Legolas stood up, his expression still troubled. “I must speak with my father,” he said absently. 

“Speak with your father?” Thorin practically spat out. “Your true colors are revealed at last, Elf. Feign kindness to gain trust and then act as a spy.”

Legolas sighed. “You are a most quarrelsome dwarf,” he said with exasperation. “Your race is quick to anger when there is no cause. I have enjoyed our conversation greatly until this moment. I would return again tomorrow eve if you are agreeable.” 

With that the Elf departed, leaving Thorin somewhat dumbstruck. The Dwarf got the suspicious feeling that he’d just been summarily dismissed.

 _How dare he?_ Thorin fumed to himself. How dare that upstart Elf Prince dismiss him like that so he may _speak to his father_. Thorin would have some choice words for the Elf should Legolas return the following night. He would not be played for the fool.


	4. Chapter 4

Thorin was in a sullen, foul mood all the next day and it was only Balin (proving that he was the bravest dwarf among them) who attempted to make any conversation with him. The leader of the company was still stewing over his encounter with the Elven Prince, equal parts angry at himself for his lapse in judgment, and at Legolas for the Prince’s effortless charm. What was happening to him? He wasn’t some Elf-maid for the Prince to woo. Their relationship – if it could be called such – was not heading in the same direction as his headstrong nephew and the female Elven Captain. There were no romantic inclinations. What he felt for the Elf was a bizarre and wholly unexpected comradeship, a kind of kinship that made absolutely no sense. It’s not like he ever wondered what it would like to kiss the Elf, if Legolas’s lips were really as soft as they looked. That would be . . . ridiculous. 

“Did it ever occur to you,” Balin was saying. “That you might be able to sway Legolas to our side?” 

“And turn him against his father?” Thorin scoffed. 

“No, no. I didn’t say that,” Balin hastily corrected. “Elves are as loyal to their kin as dwarves. It might be the one thing our races have in common. Attempting to turn Legolas against Thranduil would be a preposterous idea. But . . .” 

Here Balin paused meaningfully. 

“But,” he said again. “Legolas is, by far, the most sympathetic Elf that we’ve met, even more so than Lord Elrond. In Rivendell we had Gandalf to intercede on our behalf. Here you are dealing with the Prince directly.”

“Has being trapped in these Elvish dungeons affected you so? State plainly what you mean,” Thorin said irritably. “Or I’ll start to think that some Elvish traits have rubbed off on you.” 

Balin sighed quietly to himself. Dealing with Thorin when he was in one of his ‘moods’ required perseverance and a stout heart. Their leader had a mercurial temper. Balin knew well that it was a family trait. _He must really like that Elf_ , the wise advisor thought to himself. 

“What I’m saying,” Balin said aloud and slowly as though he were speaking to a troublesome child, “is that Legolas holds great influence with his father. Whatever else you think of Thranduil, his love and devotion to his only child is well known. And in turn, the Prince is his most trusted advisor and councilor.” 

“You mean his enforcer and his bodyguard,” Thorin threw back.

Balin sighed once more. “If Legolas is sympathetic to our cause,” he tried again, “and presents our case to Thranduil, that would go a long way in helping us out of our predicament. At the very least, it might soften Thranduil’s disposition towards us.” 

He didn’t add that Thranduil would still expect an apology from Thorin, one that would probably require Thorin to get down on his knees and possibly beg. Balin could be optimistic and he was hoping that it wouldn’t come to that, that Legolas could act as a mediator between his temperamental father and the equally temperamental leader of their company. From the little that he’d seen of the Elven Prince, he’d gleaned that the Elf possessed many noble traits befitting his station and had a kinder heart than his father.

When Thorin didn’t respond for some time, Balin grew a little concerned. “Thorin?” he questioned. 

Thorin’s voice was quiet and subdued when he spoke. “Do you think him a spy?” 

Balin had no evidence to go on other than his gut instinct but his response was swift. “No.” 

“No,” Thorin repeated and Balin couldn’t tell if it was meant in agreement or disagreement. 

This time it was Thorin who sighed. “No,” he said again, his tone hinting at resignation. “I do not think him a spy either.”

Balin was grinning so widely he was thankful that Thorin couldn’t see him. “Well, then,” he said in a businesslike manner, his voice not betraying the inner relief that he felt. “If the Prince visits you again tonight, you can work your charms on him.” 

“Work my charms?” Thorin said disbelievingly. “Since when have I had any ‘charms’ to work on others?” 

“Oh, I remember a young Dwarf Prince who had quite a way with the ladies of Erebor,” Balin replied affectionately. “Have you never wondered where Kili gets it from?” 

“That was many moons ago,” Thorin said, but Balin could tell that he was pleased.

“I hear those sorts of skills don’t really go away,” Balin encouraged. “And since you can’t challenge the Prince to a fight, I guess you’ll just have to win him over the old-fashioned way.”

~*~*~*~*~

Legolas loathed indecision and yet he had spent most of the evening diverting himself, unsure of whether to return to the dungeons. He did not fear the Dwarf Lord, but he also didn’t know what to expect. Everything about Thorin Oakenshield was so . . . unpredictable. In fact, it was the Dwarf’s unpredictability that intrigued and secretly thrilled him.

It was very late when he finally ventured to the cells, his steps soundless as he walked down the Elven pathways. Only a few torches burned dimly, the usual bright light that filled these halls lessened so that the occupants could sleep. Judging by the loud snores that Legolas heard ( _It was a veritable thunderstorm_ , the Elf mused), most of the company was asleep. There was a good chance that Thorin would be sleeping too, but Legolas continued to the dwarf’s cell. When he got there, he found Thorin standing near the bars, hands clasped behind his back, deep in thought. Standing in this way, Legolas could see the exiled King in him. There was no mistaking the noble blood that flowed in Thorin’s veins. 

They regarded each other silently, Legolas waiting for the Dwarf to speak. He would let Thorin determine the direction of their encounter as he tried to gauge the Dwarf’s temperament. He had hoped that the chances of Thorin launching a tirade against him would be lessened in the dead of night out of consideration for his sleeping companions. Unless, of course, the Dwarf’s anger was exceedingly great and had not diminished since the previous eve. That, however, did not appear to be the case as the Dwarf gazed calmly back at him. 

“Have you a light?” Thorin asked eventually, breaking the silence.

Legolas produced the tinderbox from the night before and struck another match. At the same time, Thorin took out the pipe that Legolas had given him, holding it through the bars so that the Elf could light it. Legolas did so and waited again as Thorin took several puffs. When the Dwarf appeared to be content with his pipe, Legolas sat down in the same spot. He wondered if Thorin would sit down tonight. The Dwarf was perpetually standing in his presence. The Prince found it terribly formal and he was trying to ease the formality between them. _But perhaps_ , another voice said, _he enjoys the height advantage when_ you _sit_. It was not an unreasonable thought and Legolas smiled to himself. 

Thorin must have caught the smile because he gave the Elf an inquiring look as if to say, _Something amusing?_

“I was just wondering,” Legolas began. “If you are customarily awake at such a late hour?” 

“I was waiting for you.” 

Legolas was taken aback by the blunt honesty of the reply. Truly, this Dwarf was most unpredictable. Honesty deserves honesty, he thought. 

“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” Legolas answered. “I was not certain if you would want to see me.” 

“I was not certain myself,” Thorin admitted.

“Now that that is out of the way . . .” Legolas trailed off, half smiling. 

Thorin did not return his smile. “If you expect me to apologize . . .” he said gruffly. 

The Dwarf’s voice may have sounded threatening but even in the dim lighting Legolas could read the playful glint in Thorin’s eye and his own smile grew wider. Thorin was teasing him. How truly unexpected. 

“You did accuse me of being a spy,” Legolas reminded him.

“It was a fair assumption,” Thorin countered. 

Legolas shook his head. “There are many spies in Mirkwood, Thorin Oakenshield,” he replied, his tone growing serious. “But I am not one of them.” 

“I know,” Thorin answered, just as seriously.

Legolas nodded in acknowledgement. He was pleased. That was as close to an apology as he would get from the proud Dwarf Lord. 

They fell into another companionable silence after that. All the tension between them had disappeared and when they spoke again, it was in hushed tones while the rest of Thorin’s companions slept. The first light of dawn was beginning to enter the Elvenking’s realm when Legolas at last took his leave.

~*~*~*~*~

So the third week of Thorin’s stay followed the same pattern with Legolas visiting him in the evenings, usually after dinner and usually when most of the others were already asleep. They conversed in quiet tones, punctuated by the occasional musical laugh from the Elf or a deep guffaw from the Dwarf. Legolas had also taken to bringing some food with him, usually fruit for him to eat and some cheese, chocolate or another sweet for Thorin.

“Does it ever occur to you,” Thorin asked one evening (he was finally sitting down on the bench beside the Elf and they were now practically eye level). “That I might like some fruit?” 

Legolas, who was slicing a golden pear, looked at him with widened eyes. “How very rude of me,” he replied, clearly shocked by his lack of consideration. He sliced one half of the pair into two quarters and passed both pieces through the bars. Thorin accepted the fruit, not missing how their hands brushed (he had intentionally done that) and the Dwarf could have sworn that there had been the faintest tingling at the contact. He gave no outward reaction and neither did Legolas who resumed slicing his half of the pear, but Thorin discreetly passed his fingers where the Elf had touched his hand, making sure that Legolas did not see the action.

“Since your company arrived . . .” Legolas began. 

(The Prince never called them ‘prisoners’ and sometimes Thorin wondered what it would be like to return to Mirkwood as Legolas’s guest, to see the Elven kingdom through the Elven Prince’s eyes. He conveniently ignored Thranduil in those imaginings. Indeed, ‘retuning’ carried with it the necessary proposition of ‘escape’ but Thorin believed the possibility of that was greater than ever.) 

“ . . . there has been an increasing incidence of minor . . . theft.” 

Thorin tensed and he hoped that it didn’t show. “What do you mean?” he asked calmly.

“I’ve received reports – especially from those tending to the kitchens – of food stores going missing and wine as well. A blanket will be removed from the linen closet and then turn up in the laundry. And my people speak of a presence. Sometimes they feel as if they are being watched, but when they turn around there is no one there.” 

“It sounds like you have a ghost.” 

“Or a burglar,” Legolas corrected. “Our mystery guest once left a set of wet footprints and ghosts don’t do that. It’s reached a point where I’ve been asked to investigate. Stealing is a major crime in my father’s kingdom. The King won’t abide by thieves.”

The Elf didn’t sound particularly enthused at the prospect and Thorin couldn’t blame him. There were no doubt better uses of the Prince’s time. And his last statement worried Thorin. He had a very good idea of who this ‘burglar’ was and he was deeply concerned over said burglar’s safety. 

“Do you have a plan of action for your mystery guest?” Thorin inquired, careful not to use the word ‘burglar.’ 

“I have a few ideas,” Legolas answered but his tone said that he was not inclined to share them and Thorin dropped the issue.

They moved on to other topics but all the while the matter of the burglar remained at the back of Thorin’s mind. At last, when Legolas had departed and Thorin was quite certain that he was alone, surrounded only by the snoring of his company he said aloud: 

“I suppose you have been listening.” 

A long moment of silence and stillness followed and then a slightly shame-faced Hobbit stepped out from the shadows and soundlessly moved to the front of Thorin’s cell. 

“I don’t listen every night,” Bilbo said somewhat defensively. “Most nights,” he amended. He paused. “All right, every night but two,” he finally conceded. 

“Your contract is to steal, not eavesdrop.”

“They are related skills,” Bilbo pointed out. “And I’ve had a lot of practice stealing of late.” He didn’t add that stealing from the Elvenking was the first time he’d actually ever stolen anything – his magic ring didn’t count – in his life. He was learning a dubious new trade in the Elvenking’s halls. “Your conversations are interesting,” he went on. “And there’s really nothing to do at night. Well, sleep, of course. But it’s hard to do that, huddled in various corners constantly afraid of getting caught. And I like the Prince. He seems . . . nice. Kind. Don’t you think so?” 

Thorin shook his head affectionately at the hobbit that he’d grown so very fond of. “Have you made any progress?” he asked, conveniently evading Bilbo’s question. 

Bilbo had made his presence known to Thorin during the third week of their captivity, almost immediately after Thorin had patched things up with Legolas and thus settled into a routine with the Prince. (Thorin assumed those were the ‘two nights’ of conversation that Bilbo had missed.) He had been shocked and overjoyed to see the hobbit, and the possibility of escape became ever more real to him. His opinion of Bilbo had risen considerably since the start of the quest. It was Bilbo’s quick wits to play for time that had saved them against the cave trolls; it was Bilbo who had cut them down from the cocoons of Mirkwood’s giant spiders; and he believed that it would be Bilbo who would rescue them from the dungeons of the Elvenking. It was an awful lot to ask of the hobbit, but Bilbo had time and again proven his resilience, good sense and good fortune. The mere fact that Bilbo had somehow managed to explore the Elvenking’s palace for over three weeks and remain uncaught and largely undetected was nothing short of a wonder to Thorin. Truly, he had grossly underestimated the hobbit’s worth and now held him in the highest regard. Now the hobbit stood in front of him, ready to report on his progress for their escape plan. 

“Yes,” Bilbo confirmed. “There’s been progress, but before we get into that . . .” he trailed off and looked at Thorin hesitantly.

“What is it?” Thorin prodded. 

“Can’t we just ask Legolas to help us? It would be so much easier if he did.” 

“The risk would be too great.” 

“But he likes you,” the hobbit persisted. “He’s your friend.”

Thorin was startled by the declaration. He was even more startled that he’d never considered the Elf that way before. Were they friends? In other circumstances, the answer would be obvious but their situation was so unusual. Paradoxically, it was precisely their unusual circumstances that had allowed them to meet in the first place. The chances of him encountering the Prince (and getting to know him) if the company had not passed through Mirkwood, strayed from the Elven path and been attacked by the spiders seemed extremely remote. Thorin would have no reason to journey to Mirkwood and the likelihood of running into an Elven Prince in one of the cities of men seemed preposterous at best. 

“No,” Thorin said firmly. “I would not put Legolas in that position.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to say something, possibly to ask what Thorin meant, but he closed it just as quickly. Thorin saw the understanding dawn on the hobbit’s face and Bilbo nodded. A true friend wouldn’t force one’s hand. Thorin wouldn’t ask the Prince to choose between loyalty to his father or loyalty to Thorin. Aside from the fact that he was certain he would lose (Balin was right, elves were just as loyal to their kin as dwarves), Thorin simply had no claim on the Elf that could compare. It was best all around that he not put Legolas in that position, and with Bilbo here to help them, the Prince would not even have to plead for their release to his father. 

“So,” Thorin said expectantly. “What progress have you made?” 

“Well, the front gate is completely out of the question,” Bilbo replied. “Not only is it guarded at all times but there’s some kind of Elvish magic on it too.” 

“The front gate is the only way out of the palace.”

“Not necessarily,” Bilbo said with a twinkle in his eye. “There’s also the river gate and I’ve found a way to access it through the cellars.” The hobbit was getting excited which meant that he thought his plan was fairly good. “It’s a mad, mad idea,” Bilbo was saying, “but I really think it will work. More than that, I don’t think we have any other options.” 

“Time is running out,” Thorin reminded him. “There is still a ways to journey yet before we reach the mountain. When will we make our escape?” 

“Glad you asked,” Bilbo said. “Apparently, there’s a big feast in two days time. A host of supplies are being brought in through the river from Lake Town. Our best chance of escape is the night of the celebration when everyone is distracted and hopefully drunk.” 

“That sounds good,” Thorin agreed. “And the keys to our cells?” 

“Don’t worry about that,” Bilbo assured him. “I’ll have the keys when we need them.” 

“In two days then, Master Baggins,” Thorin said. 

“Two days,” Bilbo repeated, waving to Thorin before he once again disappeared into the shadows.

When Thorin finally lay down on his bunk, anticipation and anxiety prevented sleep from coming to him. They needed to get out of these cells for Durin’s Day was drawing ever nearer and they had spent almost a full month in the Elvenking’s dungeons. They were wasting valuable time. Yet, when he reflected that the following night would be the last time he would enjoy Legolas’s company, it made leaving the Elvenking’s palace bittersweet.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The barrel escape is such a huge set piece in the film that I've had to divide it into two parts. This is the first part and it _doesn't_ contain a certain scene that most of you are probably looking forward to. Just felt that you should be warned. :)

The next day, the buzz of anticipation thrummed in Thorin’s veins. Everything seemed heightened to him and he observed the goings-on outside his cell with keen eyes. He would be leaving this place soon and he wanted to commit as much detail as he could to memory. While he would never look back on his imprisonment in the Elvenking’s halls fondly, there was no denying the significance of the impact his stay had had on him, in no small part because of a certain Elven Prince.

Evening could not come soon enough and Thorin wondered what the chances were that Legolas would break from their routine today and perhaps come to visit him earlier. He no longer cared that the company knew of his . . . friendship . . . with the Elf. 

Unfortunately for Thorin, Legolas did break their routine that day in the form of the Keeper of the Keys who came to Thorin’s cell after lunch bearing a handwritten note from the Prince and the tinderbox that Legolas used to light Thorin’s pipe every night. The note, written in the Prince’s hand in a smooth flowing script, informed him that Legolas had left for the border to meet an Elven party from Lothlórien who were coming to partake in the great feast. The Prince and his guards would escort them to Thranduil’s palace safe and sound. 

Thorin folded the note neatly after reading it even though the urge to scrunch it into a ball and hurl it through the bars of his cell was tempting. Legolas would not be visiting him that night – his last night in Thranduil’s dungeons if all went according to plan – and that is why he had left the tinderbox to Thorin, so Thorin could still enjoy a smoke if he so wished. _Confound it!_ the Dwarf thought with frustration. Of all nights! He wouldn’t even be able to say farewell (although the Elf should never have suspected that it would have been ‘farewell.’) Legolas would be back in time for the feast, but with all the preparations underway and the social obligations that the Prince would no doubt be under to entertain their guests, it would be unlikely that Legolas would have any time to visit on the day itself. 

Thorin’s mood dampened as did his anticipation of their escape. It was Bilbo who visited him that night with more details about the plan the hobbit had devised. Thorin was too distracted (and a tad depressed) to follow closely what the hobbit was saying. Something about barrels and the river, and Thorin simply nodded his head whenever it seemed like it was the appropriate response. 

At length, Thorin’s low spirits seemed to get the hobbit down as well and Bilbo gave up explaining his plan.

“Just be prepared,” Bilbo said one last time. “I’ll be back sometime after midnight. By the looks of the preparations, it’s going to be quite the party and hopefully, it won’t be too hard to slip away.” 

“After midnight,” Thorin echoed despondently. 

Bilbo turned around ready to go to wherever it was he went when he was hiding, but then stopped and looked at Thorin hesitantly. 

“You still might see him again before we leave,” he said gently. 

Thorin’s attention snapped to the hobbit. He knew immediately to whom Bilbo was referring. “It is unlikely,” he answered.

“But not impossible,” Bilbo returned. He was ever the optimist. “Good night!” 

Thorin shook his head fondly. “Good night, Master Baggins,” he replied.

~*~*~*~*~

The day of the feast dawned early and the extra bustle and merriment of the Elves seemed to permeate the very air, drifting down to the dwarves’ cells and infecting them with the spirit. Even their breakfast was a generous serving of a richer and more elaborate fare.

“Would it be possible to have a wee bit of ale?” Dori had asked the Keeper of the Keys. 

The Keeper, who was in an exceedingly good mood, had replied, “It is not _im_ possible, Master Dwarf. I will see what can be done.” 

Apparently, it was possible for the dwarves each had a pint of ale to go with their hearty lunch. 

“’Tis a pity Elves don’t feast everyday,” Dwalin had commented in between bites of a large drumstick of chicken. 

“Someone should tell them that they don’t need an excuse to have a feast!” Bofur had called out.

This statement was met with loud cheers and a good bit of laughter from the company. Thorin was glad to see his kin in high spirits. Word had quietly spread among them of Bilbo’s plan and they were eager to be out of the Elvenking’s palace. Evening couldn’t come soon enough. 

Evening did arrive, however, and still there was no Legolas in sight. Thorin assumed that the Prince and the party from Lothlórien had arrived safely some time during the day, though he had heard no news. Tauriel was also conspicuously absent and it wasn’t farfetched to think that she too had been a member of the welcoming party. It was petty, but Thorin took a small pride in the fact that Legolas had thought to inform him of his absence, while Kili had not received a similar note from his . . . Elf. But Thorin did not wish to see his nephew unhappy, and he quickly banished the nasty thought. Kili’s infatuation with Tauriel was deep (his nephew probably thought it was love) and Thorin had even less right to judge his nephew now than before, especially when he wouldn’t dare name what he felt for Legolas, wouldn’t consider what transpired between them anything other than an unexpected friendship. 

As the night wore on and the revelry in the upper halls grew louder, the Dwarves were left alone in their cells. Their evening meal, served a little earlier than usual, had been accompanied with a potent glass of wine. 

“Dorwinion wine,” the Keeper had explained. “Reserved only for the King’s feasts.” 

“And does the King know that you are serving this fine wine to his prisoners?” Thorin couldn’t help but ask in a half-taunting tone. 

The Keeper refilled Thorin’s goblet before locking Thorin’s cell once more. All the while, Thorin’s eyes were on the set of heavy keys that the Keeper carried. _How was Bilbo going to obtain those keys?_ he wondered, but the Keeper’s reply caught his attention. 

“It is by order of his son,” the Keeper said and then he was gone. That was the last the company saw of the Keeper for the night or of any other Elf for that matter.

“Where’s Bilbo?” some of the Dwarves began asking. 

“When is Bilbo coming?” was another common question. 

“Quiet!” Thorin ordered. “Elves have keen hearing.” 

“They’re all probably drunk as skunks upstairs,” Fili said. 

“Elvish folk can’t hold their liquor,” Kili agreed. “They’re too fine-boned, too delicate in their constitution.” 

“Actually, I’ve heard that Elves have an incredibly high tolerance for alcohol,” a long-expected voice said. “I’ve been told that they could drink Dwarves under the table.” 

This statement was met with a mixed response. First, there was a chorus of “Bilbos!” followed by sheer indignation at the thought of an Elf drinking a Dwarf under the table.

“Sssh!” Bilbo hissed. “There are guards nearby,” he reminded them. He was grinning a little madly, standing in front of Thorin’s cell with the set of keys that belonged to the Keeper. “Thank goodness,” he said to Thorin as he unlocked the Dwarf’s cell. “That the Keeper isn’t one of those Elves.” 

“Well done, Master Baggins,” Thorin replied, the hobbit’s enthusiasm infecting him. 

Bilbo grinned back before proceeding to unlock the cells of their remaining companions. The Dwarves stepped out of their cells eagerly, embracing each other and trying (and largely failing) to keep their voices lowered. 

“Where to, Bilbo?” Bofur asked. 

“Follow me!” the little hobbit replied. 

So the company trooped after Bilbo in single-file down the Elven pathways, lower and deeper into the bowels of the palace.

“Are you sure we’re heading in the right direction?” Ori asked a little worriedly, as they walked. 

“I don’t believe it,” Kili exclaimed as they snuck past two sleeping Elves, one of whom they recognized as the Keeper of the Keys. “We’re in the cellars!” 

“You were supposed to be leading us out, not further in!” Bofur added.

“I know what I’m doing,” Bilbo insisted. “This way,” he urged, gesturing down into a space that contained empty barrels, stacked along on their sides. “This way.” 

The dwarves looked dubious but they followed his instructions. When they were all in the loading area save for Thorin who stood beside Bilbo, the hobbit said: 

“Now, everyone. Get into the barrels. Quickly!” 

Dwalin stalked back to the hobbit, his expression like a thunderstorm. “Are you mad?” he hissed. “They’ll find us.” 

“No, no, they won’t,” Bilbo replied, vehemently. “Now, please. Please. You must trust me.”

Dwalin’s expression didn’t change, but he went back to the company and the group formed a haphazard huddle, conferring amongst themselves about the wisdom of climbing into the barrels. A look of despair crossed Bilbo’s face and he turned to Thorin for help. Thorin had been about to intervene, but the sudden silence and stillness (not to mention the horrified look of shock on his company’s faces) stopped him. Beside him, the little hobbit jumped backwards and let out a surprised squeak. 

“Legolas!”

There the Elf Prince was, standing a little behind the two of them at the top of the steps. No one had heard him approach and he had caught them all red-handed. He looked more beautiful than ever, Thorin thought, wearing a circlet of _mithril_ on his brow. Thorin saw the rapid range of emotions flit across the Prince’s fair features, from amazement to dismay to consternation and finally a kind of resignation, as he surveyed the scene in front of him. 

Legolas looked down at the hobbit on his right and if he had been surprised that the hobbit (whom he’d never met) had known his name, he gave no indication. The look the two of them exchanged was one of understanding and there was something close to admiration when the Prince at last smiled at the hobbit. 

When he looked up again, he addressed the dwarves. “Get into the barrels,” he said, repeating Bilbo’s order.

If the company had been surprised to hear that command from the hobbit, then they were downright shocked to hear it from the Elf. No one moved. 

Thorin wished he’d paid better attention to Bilbo’s plan the night before. Legolas seemed to have a better grasp of what was going on just from exchanging a look with the hobbit. But he found that he trusted both of them and so he said, “Do as they say.” 

There was no hesitation from the company this time, but there was still a fair bit of grumbling as they helped each other climb into the barrels. 

Now Legolas turned to Thorin. “I will give you a head start,” he told the Dwarf. “But once you pass from these palace walls, it will be my duty to catch you once again.” 

“I understand,” Thorin replied, wishing he knew exactly what was about to happen. He wanted to say more, but there was no time and words failed him so he moved to join the others.

Legolas and Bilbo stood side by side as they watched the Dwarves sort themselves out. 

“So,” the Prince said conversationally. “You are the burglar that has been sneaking about my father’s palace for the past month.” 

Bilbo glanced up at the Elf sheepishly. He wanted to tell the Prince that he normally had much better manners, but instead he thrust out his hand and introduced himself. “Bilbo Baggins,” he stated. He almost added, “At your service” (he’d been spending far too much time with dwarves) but that would’ve been highly inappropriate and their situation was absurd enough as it was.

Legolas looked at the proffered hand with an arched brow before he gave in to his amusement and took in in his own, giving the hobbit a firm handshake. “Legolas,” he replied. 

They stood side by side in silence again, watching as the last of the dwarves was helped into a barrel. (It was Bombur.) 

“It really is a pleasure to meet you,” Bilbo said quietly, leaning towards the Prince. He couldn’t say that he felt like he already knew the Prince thanks to Legolas’s nightly conversations with Thorin. “Finally, I mean. I just wish it were under better circumstances.” 

A faint half-smile crossed Legolas’s face at the hobbit’s confession, but he did not glance down again. Instead, his eyes sought the barrel that Thorin had chosen. “Indeed,” he agreed, locking eyes with the Dwarf Lord.

At last, when the company was secured in their barrels, they all poked their heads out again as Bofur asked the hobbit, “What’ll you do now?” 

Bilbo looked once more at the Elf as though asking permission. He gestured towards the release handle. 

Legolas shook his head. “That would be directly aiding,” the Elf explained. _As opposed to merely letting the escape happen_ was left unsaid.

Bilbo nodded in understanding and said to his friends, “Hold your breath.” 

“Hold me breath?” Bofur repeated quizzically, but the rest of his reply was drowned out by Bilbo pulling on the lever and the sound of the barrels rolling as the trapdoor swung open.

The hobbit chased after the rolling barrels in delight, counting them off as they each fell with a loud splash into the river below. Meanwhile, Legolas glanced back at the table where the Keeper of the Keys and his father’s butler had fallen asleep, two bottles of empty Dorwinion wine between them. They barely stirred at the noise. When he looked back at the loading area, the hobbit was standing at the center of the trapdoor with his hands on his hips. His delight had vanished to be replaced by a look of deep consideration. The Prince inwardly smiled. 

“Did you forget something in your grand plan, Master Hobbit?” Legolas asked, unable to keep the mirth out of his voice. He had foreseen what Bilbo had overlooked. 

“Ah yes,” Bilbo replied, somewhat flustered. “It appears so.” 

He looked so perplexed and flummoxed that Legolas found it hopelessly endearing. “Stay there,” he ordered, moving to grasp the lever of the trapdoor. 

“But wouldn’t that be . . .” Bilbo trailed off, immediately understanding what the Prince was about to do. 

“Technically, you were never my father’s prisoner,” Legolas answered. 

Before Bilbo could say anything in response, the Elf had pulled the lever and the trapdoor swung open. The last thing Bilbo saw was a lovely head of golden hair crowned with a circlet of _mithril_ as he slid head first into the river below.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks the end of _The Desolation of Smaug_ part of the story. It's also the last update for the week since deadlines and crappy health are combining to suck all my creative energy. 
> 
> In the meantime, hope you enjoy the conclusion to the barrel escape. Dialogue has been liberally lifted and adapted from the film to suit the story.

Thorin’s company and the little hobbit fled not a moment too soon. Legolas could already hear the rapid footsteps of his kin in the floors above. The dwarves’ escape had been discovered and the alert was spreading like wildfire. Legolas met Tauriel and a group of guards in the upper floor of the cellars. 

“It is too late,” he told the Captain. “Sound the alarm and close the river gate.” The Elves with Tauriel moved to make way for the Prince. “And somebody wake the Keeper of the Keys,” Legolas added in irritation, as he passed by the group. “My father will want to see him.”

Now that the dwarves and the hobbit were gone, Legolas was more conflicted than ever by what he had allowed to transpire. He could’ve stopped them. He _should_ have stopped them. His father would be livid if he ever found out. But Legolas was not concerned about Thranduil at this moment. Nor was he particularly upset with Thorin. It would’ve been out of character for the Dwarf not to attempt an escape. It was for that very reason that the Dwarves had been watched with extra care, but everyone had been lax tonight thanks to the feasting and the Prince had no doubt that the punishments for those who had been negligent in their duties would be severe. 

No, the person Legolas was most angry at was himself for giving Thorin false hope. A head start, he had called it but the reality was that the dwarves would never get out through the river gate. It had been a clever plan by their clever little hobbit, but his people were simply too quick and too efficient. They had been trained well. Even now that gate was being closed against Thorin’s company. It would take extraordinary circumstances for the Dwarves to make it to the fast flowing Forest River. 

Legolas took off the circlet of _mithril_ as well as the fine embroidered tunic of green and silver that he had worn for the feast. He had passed by his rooms after leaving the cellars and was now quickly changing into more appropriate woodland attire. He strapped on his weapons: the twin blades, the bow and quiver and Orcrist, the sword that he had carried with him since Thorin’s capture. He knew that Tauriel would have things well in hand, just as he knew that the Dwarves would put up a fight, even if they had nothing but their bare fists. He did not look forward to subduing them at the river gate. 

By the time the Prince exited one of the side doors onto an overlook that gave him a clear view of the river gate, he saw that nearly all the barrels were already blocked by the grate that ran under the water. The current of the river was piling the Dwarves against the closed entrance. They would be easy to recapture. Legolas felt an odd sense of relief and disappointment at this. He considered leaving the wrangling of the Dwarves to Tauriel. He did not think he could bear Thorin’s disappointment added to his own. But a dark movement beyond the gate caught his eye. It couldn’t be. Those fell beasts would never dare come so close to Elven borders, would never dare attack one of their gates. 

“ _Yrch_!” Legolas yelled. 

More Elves came out of the palace at his cry armed with their bows and blades. 

“To the river gate!” Legolas ordered and they all leapt into the trees above the flowing river.

Legolas led the pursuit. The sounds of the skirmish at the gate reached him clearly. He could see that Tauriel and her group had already engaged the Orcs. They were a large number swarming over the gates of the river. 

_They are not after us_ , Legolas thought with certainty. _They are after the Dwarves_.

He doubled his speed and burst onto the scene with an arrow already nocked. The Dwarves were still trapped by the underwater gate, but through his peripheral vision, Legolas saw the young, raven-haired Dwarf that Tauriel favored by the long handle that opened the gate. He was alone, but wounded. There was an arrow stuck in his leg, but he was struggling to stand, moving with all his strength towards the lever. 

Legolas continued to dispatch the orcs that faced him with ruthless efficiency. He saw with alarm that the Elves were outnumbered. The orcs swarming the gate were only a fraction of their true number. He heard the snap of the long lever being released and then the barrels were moving again, being swept by the current of the Forest River into the rapids below. Unthinkingly, Legolas leaped over the stone wall of the gate, aware of Tauriel behind him. A few of the Elves remained at the gate, finishing off what was left of the Orcs there, but the rest of them followed their Prince. They leaped once more into the trees, following the course of the river, their bows singing as they unleashed their arrows upon the moving Orc host. 

Legolas was uncertain anymore if he was pursuing the Orcs, pursuing the Dwarves or protecting the Dwarves from the Orcs. It was most likely a combination of all three, but as he kept Thorin in sight at all times, he realized that he too had become invested in the Dwarves’ quest whether it ended in good or in ill. He matched his pace with the fast-moving barrels and saw with dismay that the little hobbit was clinging onto the outside of one of the empty barrels. He had never imagined that Thorin’s company would get this far and now he wished that the hobbit was better protected from the elements but there was nothing he could do about that. What he could do was kill as many Orcs as possible. 

The Orcs were of a greater number on the other side of the river and timing his leap over a fallen tree, Legolas landed on two of the rather large headed Dwarves. He knew it was very rude, but he was helping them after all, and he needed to get to the other side of the river. He allowed the Dwarves to carry him downstream, his bow never ceasing in its motion as he fired arrow after arrow into the Orcs along the banks. When he was near enough to the opposite bank, he leaped again. He could feel the dagger glares of Thorin’s lieutenant (Dwalin, was that his name?) following him and he suspected that the proud warrior would not forgive him for his breach of conduct. It was the least of Legolas’s concerns, however, as protecting the company until they reached the borders of the Elven kingdom had become foremost in his mind. He dispatched the Orcs that he met at the opposite bank with skill and ease. He knew that they were nearing the outermost border of his father’s domain and beyond that point he must cease the chase. If the Dwarves crossed that threshold, then they were truly free. 

In one last effort to clear the path for the company, Legolas crossed the river once more, this time using a line of conveniently arranged barrels (and dwarf heads) as stepping stones to the other side. He leaped onto a rock promontory, the last border marker of the Elven kingdom where three Orcs were waiting. He slew them with his twin blades, hearing rather than seeing, a fourth Orc approach from behind. His long dagger was still embedded in the Orc in front of him and he needed to pivot to avoid the blow from behind. There was so little time. He was just withdrawing his dagger from the Orc’s chest when he heard the sound of a singing blade behind him and the Orc who had almost been upon him, fell back with the blow. Legolas’s movements were liquid and with the threat behind him eliminated, he sheathed his daggers and reached for his bow in a single motion, nocked an arrow and killed the last Orc before it could attack the remaining Dwarves. As the dead Orc was swept away by the current, the last four Dwarves of Thorin’s company safely passed through the Elven border. 

Legolas stood on the promontory, watching the barrels be carried away. The Dwarves had passed through the worst of the rapids. The river was relatively smooth and fast-flowing from that point onwards and the company would make good time. He also knew however, that they were weaponless and had no supplies. While the river would keep them ahead of the pursuing Orc party, it would not do so forever. Legolas suspected that these were the same Orcs that Thorin had told him about, but he had not seen Azog the Defiler among them. It was Azog’s son, Bolg, who had lead the chase. 

Legolas had caught Thorin’s eye one last time before the Dwarf’s barrel had disappeared round the bend. The Dwarf Lord had raised his hand in farewell and Legolas had acknowledged the motion with a nod. He knew that it was Thorin who had saved his life and he wondered if he would have an opportunity to repay his debt. 

The sound of an arrow being deflected in mid-flight close to him caught his attention, but his glance behind was cursory. He knew that Tauriel was already there, ready to slice off the Orc’s head. 

“ _Garo_!” he told her to stay her hand as his keen gaze swept over the river. He watched with concern as Bolg rounded his remaining troops (the horde was at least still thirty strong) and their grotesque figures scampered along the river banks in pursuit of Thorin’s company. 

When Legolas finally turned around, he saw the Orc on its knees with Tauriel’s blade at its throat. Legolas walked to the creature and stopped in front of it. “You will talk,” he told the Orc menacingly.

~*~*~*~*~

“In time, all foul things come forth.”

Thranduil’s voice was cool and distant. He was dressed in robes that indicated he had just risen from bed. He wore no crown and his silken hair though brushed to its customary smoothness was unbraided. The feast had lasted well into the morning and Thranduil would have preferred to sleep in and allow Legolas to handle matters, but his son had brought him a most unpleasant ‘gift.’

Legolas was dressed in battle array and from what Thranduil had learned, his son had had quite the skirmish with Orcs at the river gate. The Orcs had been slain and the rest had fled in pursuit of the Dwarves. Thranduil was appalled by their boldness. For what reason would those foul creatures dare to invade his home? 

“You were tracking a company of thirteen dwarves,” Legolas was saying, pressing his blade against the Orc’s neck. “Why?” 

“Not thirteen,” the Orc replied venomously. He looked up at the Prince, snarling in pride. “Not anymore. The young one, the black-haired archer. We stuck him with a Morgul shaft. The poison’s in his blood. He’ll be choking on it soon.”

Tauriel, who had captured the Orc, reacted poorly to this news. Thranduil had always known her to be impetuous, much more than his own son, but even this flash of sudden rage during an interrogation was uncharacteristic behavior and he dismissed her. The attachment she felt for that Dwarf was . . . disturbing. 

“I do not care about one dead dwarf,” Thranduil said coldly. “Answer the question.” When his command was met with silence, the Elvenking changed his tactics. His voice was warmer when he next spoke, almost soothing. “You have nothing to fear,” he told the Orc. “Tell us what you know and I will set you free.”

Legolas’s demeanor, on the other hand, did not change. “You had orders to kill them,” he said, his voice even colder than this father’s. “Why? What is Thorin Oakenshield to you?” 

“The Dwarf runt will never be king,” the Orc muttered. 

“King?” Legolas repeated in disbelief, jerking the back of the Orc’s neck, his blade dangerously close to slicing flesh. “There is no king under the mountain and nor will there ever be.”

As his son spoke, Thranduil passed behind him, gauging the Prince as much as he was gauging the Orc. _How much of this was performance?_ the King wondered. _How much of this was true?_ For no one in Mirkwood, save for himself, had cultivated the art of performance better than his own son. In that respect, they were much alike. 

“None would dare enter Erebor whilst the dragon lives,” Legolas was saying. 

“You know nothing,” the Orc sneered with evident pleasure. “Your world will burn.” 

“What are you talking about?” Legolas hissed. “Speak!” 

“Our time has come again,” the Orc gloated. His malevolent joy was beginning to grate on Thranduil. “My Master serves the One.” 

At this Thranduil paused, his back to the Orc and his son. He was relieved that no one saw the look of understanding cross his face and his heart hardened. 

“Do you understand now, elfling?” the Orc asked. “Death is upon you! The flames of war are upon you!” 

Before the Orc could say any more and in a motion too quick almost to be seen, Thranduil had sliced off the creature’s head. He had to curb a smile at the look of irritation that crossed his son’s fair features to be left holding a severed Orc’s head.

“Why did you do that?” Legolas asked. 

Thranduil could detect the forced patience in his son’s tone. He would give the Prince some leeway. Although he disliked being roused from sleep after a late night of revelry, his son had had the harder morning, staving off Orcs from their borders. 

“You promised to set him free,” Legolas reminded him, dropping the severed head with disdain. 

“And I did,” Thranduil replied, coming to stand before his son. “I freed his wretched head from his miserable shoulders.” To emphasize his point, he stepped on the still quivering body of the Orc, forcing it to stillness.

“There was more the Orc could tell us,” Legolas insisted. 

Thranduil’s patience was growing thin. “There was no more he could tell me,” he replied dismissively. He turned around and began to walk away, re-sheathing his sword as he did so but his son’s words stopped him.

“What did he mean by the flames of war?” 

“It means they intend to unleash a weapon so great it will destroy all before it,” he answered, knowing that Legolas could see how troubled he was by this news. 

Legolas stepped toward him. “Do you remember what I told you last week? About Thorin Oakenshield’s journey?” 

Now it was Thranduil’s turn to be irritated. “I do not want to hear any more about that Dwarf or any of his company!” 

“Please, _Ada_ ,” Legolas said, putting a placating hand on his arm. “This is important.” 

The rarely used term of endearment and the gesture had its desired effect and Thranduil stayed his temper. He could read the concern in his son’s blue eyes and knew that Legolas was just as troubled by this development as he was. 

“What is it?” he said. 

“The Orc spoke of the ‘flames of war’ and of his master serving the ‘One.’” 

“Yes, what of it?” 

“We know that the ‘flames of war’ refer to Smaug, of the destruction waking that dragon would bring.” Legolas paused. “But what if it is more than that?” 

“Explain.”

“What if his master seeks an alliance between Smaug and the ‘One’? What greater weapon of war is there than a dragon? These Orcs that we killed on our borders? They came from the Dol Guldur. They are leaving the mountains. Something is calling them to that old stronghold, to our old enemy.” 

“Our enemy has long been vanquished,” Thranduil replied. “And Smaug would never align himself with the Necromancer that has taken up residence in the Dol Guldur. It is beneath him to serve a mortal man.” 

“What if the Necromancer is more than he seems?” Legolas persisted. 

“What proof have you of this?”

“There are whispers that the dead walk again in the Dol Guldur. We know who is buried in those deep dark tombs, Father. No human Necromancer, no matter how skilled or learned in the dark arts, would have the power to bring the dead back to life to serve him.” 

“Rumor and superstition,” Thranduil replied. “Is not proof.” 

“The darkness is rising,” Legolas said. “We know this better than our kin, for it lives beside us.” 

“And that is why,” Thranduil continued seamlessly. “We remain vigilant.” He turned away. 

“And what of the Orc horde that passed through our borders?” 

“They are no longer my concern.” 

“Do you not think it strange that these Orcs have pursued Thorin’s company since they set out? How did they even know of Thorin’s journey?”

Thranduil stopped again, this time on the top step of the path leading down from the throne and turned once more to face his son. 

“In all your talks with that Dwarf,” he began, fixing the Prince with a knowing look. “Oh, yes. I have heard of your nightly visits to the dungeons. Did you think you could keep that a secret from me?” 

“It was never meant to be a secret,” Legolas replied in even tones. “In this realm, there are no secrets from the king.” 

The Prince said his words as a statement of fact with a touch of defiance and Thranduil nodded his head in acknowledgement. 

“Then surely,” Thranduil continued. “Thorin son of Thrain must have shared his family’s long history with Azog the Defiler. It is no surprise that Azog would seek the Dwarf’s head as recompense.”

“But why _now_?” Legolas asked. “Why are these Orcs, in unprecedented numbers and with such boldness, surfacing now?” Before his father could answer, he continued. “It is the mountain. Not just its wealth, but its position. They seek to claim the mountain for themselves. Erebor is the gateway to Angmar, just as it was the protector of Arnor and Eriador in days of old.” 

“The mountain is not our concern,” Thranduil replied coldly. 

“The Dwarves’ actions and the outcome of their quest will affect us all,” Legolas challenged. 

“And until that time comes,” Thranduil answered. “It is not our concern.” He turned away once more. “Double the watch at our borders,” he ordered. “All roads, all rivers. Nothing moves but I hear of it. No one enters this kingdom and no one leaves it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin Translations: 
> 
> 1\. Yrch - orcs   
> 2\. Garo - hold


	7. Chapter 7

Thranduil may have closed off his borders and developed a reputation for being insular and secretive, but if strangers believed that meant the Elvenking was ignorant of the world outside his realm, then they were grossly mistaken. Thranduil had many spies and his reach was far and wide. He always knew what was happening in the wider world and though he refrained from becoming involved in the affairs of Men and the other races of Arda – unless those affairs directly involved his kingdom – he understood that knowledge was essential to rule. Time remained unchanged within Thranduil’s realm, his people as ageless and immortal as always, yet their endurance was paradoxically built on Thranduil’s ability to adapt to the outside world, to maintain treaties and negotiate trade talks. Many thought him to be a hard ruler, but he was also wise and just. 

It was no surprise then that the news of Smaug’s death reached Thranduil swiftly after it happened. A bird from the woodland realm had been sweeping along the border of the wood overlooking Lake Town when the fire drake had come down from the mountain. While the other creatures fled as the dragon drew near the wren remained, flying in wide arcs along the border between the forest and the lake. With his keen sight, the wren watched as Smaug had set the town afire, burning all who dared to stand in his way. The men of the Lake had no weapon that could bring down the dragon, no weapon that could pierce the dragon’s flesh and all fled before Smaug’s wrath. The wren took in the scene of destruction on behalf of his master. The town was lost, its people decimated and those who survived the horrors of dragon fire would not last the winter. But then the wren saw a black arrow fly from a crumbling tower where a man and a boy stood. The arrow’s aim was true and it found the bare patch in Smaug’s glittering chest, striking the dragon in its black heart. The magnificent creature let out a piercing cry as it strove once more for the heavens, but its flame had been extinguished and as the light in its eyes went out, it fell back to earth and landed on top of the ruins of the burning town. The wren watched the dragon’s fall and then it turned and flew back into the woods.

~*~*~*~*~

By the time Legolas returned to what was left of Lake-town, the survivors were spilling onto the banks of the forest, looking for loved ones and salvaging what they could from the destruction. These people were homeless and winter was upon them. Not many paid attention to the strange sight of one of the Eldar wandering amongst them, even fewer recognized that it was the Woodland Prince. Legolas helped where he could and his assistance – after the initial shock wore off – was always gladly welcomed. His keen eyes surveyed the aftermath of Smaug’s attack searching for two particular figures: Tauriel whom he knew had stayed behind to tend to the wounded Dwarf; and Bard, whom whispers among the townsfolk said had slayed the dragon. Legolas would not have been surprised to discover that the rumors were true. He knew of Bard’s ancestry, had in fact known Girion, the last King of Dale. Bard was a fine bowman and his tale would be one worth telling if he had lived.

Legolas found both his targets almost simultaneously. He witnessed the joyous reunion between Bard and his two daughters, who had been with Tauriel as they had searched for their father. He saw the townsfolk surround Bard and a man emerge to tell the others that he had seen Bard slay the dragon with his very eyes. 

“He killed the dragon!” the man exclaimed. “Shot the beast down with a black arrow!”

The cheers and cries that arose around Bard made the bowman deeply uncomfortable. Legolas smiled inwardly. Bard was humble, but he would not lie. The bowman did not dispute the tale. The snake, Alfrid, tried to take control of the situation, to immediately align himself with Bard now that the Master had abandoned his people. But the townspeople, so long under the grip of the Master and his manipulative cohort just as quickly turned on Alfrid, and Bard, though he tried to remain outside of the fray, was forced to intervene lest Alfrid be lynched. The reluctant leader mobilized what was left of the townsfolk, giving them tasks to focus their energies and organize their efforts. 

Legolas watched this spectacle unfold on the periphery of the group and with a seemingly dispassionate eye. When the townspeople at last disbanded, all those able-bodied with a task to perform, it seemed as though an invisible weight fell on Bard’s shoulders and they sloped a little lower. Legolas knew that Bard did not want the mantle of leadership, and yet it was a burden that he would bear. The Prince remained where he was, waiting for Bard to catch sight of him. When Bard finally looked up, the expression of surprise and joy that came over the careworn man warmed Legolas’s heart. Bard immediately walked towards the Elf with rapid steps. 

“Legolas,” the Bowman said, stopping just short of hugging the Elf. He stood a little awkwardly, hands by his sides as though he did not know what to do with them, what would be appropriate behavior between them. “I did not expect to see you here, but it gladdens my heart that it is so. What brings you to what is left of Lake-town?” 

“ _I amlug dagnir_ ,” Legolas replied. 

“I do not understand,” Bard said hesitantly. 

“The dragon slayer.” 

The faint blush that came over Bard’s cheeks even in the biting wind broke through Legolas’s own veneer of ice. 

“It is a worthy title,” the Prince said, smiling. Bard was about to downplay the slaying but Legolas stopped him. “No Bard,” he said gently. “Your shot was true when all hope seemed lost.” 

The bowman still looked uncomfortable and so he gestured towards the Elf in an effort to deflect some of the attention off of him. “My shot was true because I had the best and wisest of instructors,” he replied. 

Legolas’s smile was warm. “Instruction is not difficult,” he answered. “When the foundation is strong.” 

Bard shook his head but the faintest smile curved his lips as well. Legolas at last broke the formality between them, stepping forward and taking the bowman in his arms. This was not a warrior’s greeting, but a greeting between old friends and old lovers. 

“I am glad that you and your family are safe,” the Prince whispered in the man’s ear. 

Bard had returned the Elf’s embrace immediately, grateful for the contact as his arms instinctively drew the deceptively lithe form against him, inhaling deeply the woodland scent that he’d long ago come to associate with the Elf. He did not care who witnessed their reunion or what anyone would think of such a strange sight. His friendship with Legolas was old, since the days of his youth when he’d first journeyed to Mirkwood with his father and unexpectedly met the Elven Prince. He’d been besotted then and that feeling had never left him, though he’d married a fine woman whom he’d loved deeply and had borne him the three children who’d become his whole world. He’d seen less of Legolas in the intervening years, but his friendship with the Elf remained strong, as did the love he harbored, both platonic and not-so-platonic. It gave him strength now when he needed it most. 

“These people,” Bard began in a low tone when the embrace ended and they stood a little too close to each other. “They look to me for guidance.” 

“And so they should,” the Elf answered. “To lead is in your blood.” 

“It is not something I have ever wanted or sought,” Bard replied. 

“Nevertheless, it is your birthright.” Legolas placed a hand on Bard’s arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Do not fear this responsibility placed upon you. You will not lead these people astray.” 

Bard looked at the Elf a little ruefully, but nodded in acceptance. Legolas always seemed to know just what to say.

“Prince Legolas!” 

It was Bain who’d caught sight of them and Bard knew that Sigrid and Tilda would not be far behind. His son ran up to them, stopping beside Bard as he looked up at the Elf Prince in wonder. (Bard recognized that look in himself when he had been Bain’s age.) 

“Are you here to help us?” 

The Prince and the bowman exchanged a quick look. It wasn’t something they’d actually discussed but as usual, Legolas’s reply was honest. 

“I will do what I can,” he answered. “And it is just Legolas,” he added.

Bain grinned but Bard suspected it would be some time before his son would be able to shed the title. He was in too much awe of the Elf. That much was evident as he’d filled Bard in on what had happened at their house while Bard had been held in the town jail. (“We were attacked by Orcs. We would’ve been done for until the Elves came. Prince Legolas jumped through the roof and he and his friend killed all the Orcs. Killed them all, Da! Probably a dozen of them.”) Bard’s relief and gratitude had been overwhelming. Legolas had saved his children and he had yet to thank the Elf. 

Sigrid and Tilda soon appeared beside Bain, Sigrid shyly looking at the Elf Prince and Tilda smiling brightly. Both his daughters had crushes on the Prince in different ways. Bard shook his head. His whole family (and he was no exception) was enamored with the Woodland Prince. 

“Where is my companion?” Legolas asked them. “Tauriel? I heard she was last with you.” 

“Tauriel helped us escape,” Tilda answered. “She’s back there.” The little girl pointed to the edge of the lake. “Talking to a dwarf.”

Legolas looked in the direction Tilda was pointing, his heartbeat quickening with anticipation. _Talking to a dwarf._ Did that mean that Thorin Oakenshield’s company was still at Lake-town? He’d been so preoccupied chasing Bolg and his Orc horde that he hadn’t had an opportunity to look for Thorin in Lake Town before the town burned. But the notion was near impossible. Only Thorin’s company would have dared enter the dragon’s lair, only their presence would have woken the dragon. But some of the company must still be here, he reasoned. They must have stayed behind to tend to their wounded companion, just as Tauriel had done. 

Legolas took his leave of Bard and his children, walking to the edge of the lake where Tauriel was indeed speaking to one of Thorin’s nephews, Kili. The raven-haired dwarf looked much better. The color was back in his cheeks and he and Tauriel were in a deep discussion, her head bent low in an intimate gesture. But Tauriel’s keen senses immediately detected his approach and she straightened, imperceptibly creating more distance between her and the Dwarf. 

“My Lord Legolas,” she said formally in their tongue, as though ashamed that she’d been caught in some breach of conduct.

“Tauriel,” Legolas acknowledged, coming to stand beside her but his gaze remained on the Dwarf. For his part, Kili eyed Legolas’s approach warily. “You are well now?” he inquired with formal politeness. 

“No thanks to Tauriel,” Kili answered, giving Tauriel a warm look. Then he glanced back at Legolas and answered in an appropriately formal manner. “The reputation for the Eldar’s gift in healing is well deserved.”

Legolas found himself warming to the young Dwarf – and the Dwarf must indeed have been very young to be Thorin’s nephew. He had heard from Tauriel that Kili was brash and bold, often reckless and spoke his mind without restraint. It was touching to see Kili make an effort with the formal niceties appropriate to Legolas’s station. Dwarves were not known for their diplomatic skills, or rather, their idea of diplomacy often contrasted with what Elves considered to be diplomatic. 

Legolas nodded, accepting Kili’s compliment. “And what will you do now?” 

“We continue to Erebor,” Kili answered. “To join our kin.” He did not add that there was no way of knowing whether Thorin and the rest of the company still lived. He hesitated, glancing once more at Tauriel. The Elven Captain stiffened and Legolas got the impression that this was the part of their conversation that he’d interrupted.

“You’re welcome to join us,” Kili said, still looking at Tauriel. “Both of you,” he added. “If you were so inclined.” 

This time Tauriel was the one looking at Legolas and he could read the mixture of hope and hesitation in her eyes. Legolas had no doubt that she would follow his lead. Ironically, Tauriel may have disobeyed the King, but it was her long years of friendship and camaraderie with Legolas – not his position as Prince – that ensured her loyalty to him. 

“I do not know what awaits us in Erebor,” Kili was saying. “But if my uncle still lives, he would be pleased to see you.” 

Legolas’s admiration for the Dwarf grew. “Pleased to see the one who kept him in the Elvenking’s dungeons for nearly a month?” Legolas said, his tone light to make it clear that he was jesting. 

Kili shrugged. “You saved us on the river,” he pointed out. “And you helped us escape. In a way,” he quickly added, suddenly realizing that even Tauriel hadn’t been aware that Legolas had played any part in the barrel escape until that moment.

Tauriel was looking at the Prince with new eyes. She had never imagined _that_ and she was wondering precisely what Legolas had done before she’d arrived at the cellars. At that same moment, Bard joined them at the lake's edge. Legolas sensed his approach and he exchanged a look with the man on his left before returning his attention to Kili, his decision already made. 

“I thank you for your invitation,” he said graciously. “And I hope that you find your uncle and the rest of your company safe and well, but there is much to do here and I must stay and help in whatever way that I can. Perhaps,” he added. “I will meet your company again. I do not think our paths end here.” 

Kili was smiling. “Nor do I,” he agreed. “I, too, wish you well Prince Legolas.” He looked at Tauriel, but said nothing.

“You may go with them,” Legolas told her quietly in their language. “If that is your wish.” 

“My Lord,” Tauriel said in shock. She looked desperately torn, but then she shook her head. “My place is with you and with our people,” she answered. 

“Then take your leave of the Dwarf,” Legolas replied, moving away to give them some privacy. He had gone to join Bard when Súlon, another Elven Captain rode up to them on a gray steed. 

“My Lord Legolas,” Súlon said in the Sindar tongue. “I bring word from your father. You are to return to him immediately.”

“Tell my father,” Legolas answered in the Common Tongue so that Bard would understand his words. “That the Men of the Lake have suffered greatly under the wrath of Smaug and that they require our assistance. Ask him to provide food and stores for our allies and I shall meet him at the camp as soon as I am able.” 

Súlon looked greatly discomfited. 

“You are but the messenger, Súlon,” Legolas said gently, slipping into their language. “My father’s wrath will not be directed at you.”

Súlon’s smile was embarrassed as he replied, “I may be the messenger, but to be the bearer of ill tidings will not bode well for me. I have not the skill to convince the King of your request. Perhaps . . .” he trailed off and Legolas understood what he meant. 

The Prince nodded and turned to Bard. “I should return with him,” he said, switching back to the Common Tongue. “But look to the East in two days time,” he told Bard. “The Elves of Mirkwood and the Men of Dale and of Lake Town have been allies for long years. We will not abandon you now.” 

“Legolas,” Bard replied, stepping closer to Elf and resisting the urge to reach out and touch his arm. “What did you mean about meeting the King at the camp? What camp?”

The Elf smiled knowingly. “My father already knows of Smaug’s demise. Of that I am certain,” he explained. “He will march on that mountain and he will bring an army with him to reclaim what belongs to our people.” 

Bard looked at the Elf in a mixture of wonder and horror. “Your father would go to war?” 

“It remains to be seen if there is anyone left in the mountain,” Legolas answered, not betraying how badly he wished for that to be so. 

“My people, too, have a claim on the riches there,” Bard said. “With what is owed to us, we could use it to rebuild our lives.” 

“Then take your people to Dale for shelter,” Legolas said. “That is what you had already decided to do, is it not?” 

Bard nodded. 

“Dale is where my father will make camp. It is strategically located in front of the mountain. We will meet you there.” Legolas paused and he looked troubled. “Time is of the essence. News of Smaug’s death will spread and others will look to the mountain, for its wealth and for its position.” 

“What is it you know?” 

“Nothing for certain,” Legolas replied, thinking of Bolg and the Orc pack that he had chased to the edge of Esgaroth. “But I will find out soon.”


	8. Chapter 8

The remainder of the journey to Erebor took Fili, Kili, Bofur and Oin the rest of the day. The sun was low in the sky when at last the gates of Erebor stood open before them. They rushed across the stone bridge, stopping when they reached the entrance. Silence and ruin greeted them. 

“Hello?” they called out. 

“Bombur? Bifur?” Bofur yelled, looking for his brothers. “Anybody?”

They went deeper into the kingdom, climbing down stone stairways and the first person they came across was Bilbo. They were all relieved to see him, but the hobbit was evidently distressed. 

“Wait! Wait!” Bilbo said, rushing towards them and waving his arms in a gesture to make them stop. He himself came to an abrupt stop in front of them, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. “You need to leave,” he told them when at last when he could speak. “We all need to leave.” 

“We just got here,” Bofur said, looking at Bilbo perplexedly. 

“I’ve tried talking to him,” Bilbo rambled on, as though not hearing Bofur. “But he won’t listen!” 

“What d’ye mean, laddie?” Oin asked.

“Thorin,” Bilbo replied in a rush, the name coming out in an exhale of resignation. “Thorin,” he said again. “He’s been down there for days. He doesn’t sleep. He barely eats.” 

As the hobbit went on with his explanation, something caught Fili’s eye. A glint. 

“He’s not been himself. Not at all. It’s this place!” Bilbo was almost raving, gesturing towards the mighty high ceilings of Erebor. “I think a sickness lies on it,” the hobbit said. 

“Sickness?” Bofur repeated. 

But Fili was walking around their little group, drawn by the glimmer that came from below. 

“What kind of sickness?” Kili asked, his face etched with worry and concern.

Before Bilbo could answer, Fili had dashed off down another flight of stairs and Bilbo called after him. It was no use. Fili went ever downwards and the other four had no choice but to follow. They came to a stop on a high landing overlooking the main floor below. Bilbo’s heart sank as he saw the awe and wonder come over the faces of his companions. He had heard of the lust that overcame some dwarves at the sight of so much wealth and gold and he feared that he was witnessing it again and again in the members of Thorin’s company. These four had not seen Erebor in the days of its majesty and their dreams of the fabled treasure hoard could never have lived up to the reality of mountains and mountains of gold and precious jewels. 

Amidst the vastness of this treasure walked a lone figure, dressed in the noble robes of a king. He was speaking quietly, but his words echoed in the cavernous room and they reached the four dwarves and sole hobbit standing on the landing. 

“Gold,” Thorin whispered. “Gold beyond measure. Beyond sorrow and grief.” 

The King under the Mountain looked up and saw the new arrivals. “Behold!” he said, raising his voice. “The great treasure hoard of Thror.” 

Then, Thorin seemed to reach behind him and in a single fluid motion hurled a mighty gem in their direction. Fili caught the gem with ease, an enormous ruby that fit like a ball in his palm. Fili looked at the gem in wonder before gazing at his uncle. 

“Welcome,” Thorin said, arms outstretched. “Welcome, my sister’s sons to the kingdom of Erebor.”

~*~*~*~*~

The reunion with Thorin had disturbed Kili greatly. There had been a coldness in his uncle where none had existed before and Bilbo’s words echoed in his mind, _It’s this place. I think a sickness lies on it_. Kili had heard of the tales of gold-sickness – dragon-sickness others called it – that remained dormant in the history of his family line. He knew his great-grandfather had fallen prey to it, although for a long time the truth of Thror’s madness had been kept from him and his brother. It was said too that Thrain had gone mad, though not from gold but from grief. Kili had not put much stock in these tales. Neither had he disbelieved them, but they were stories after all and all stories, especially the great ones, contained embellishments. Now Kili was not so sure, not when he could see the change in his uncle for himself, not when the hollowness in Thorin’s once warm brown eyes grew ever deeper.

Ever since the company had arrived in Erebor there had been only one goal in Thorin’s mind – finding the Arkenstone. That is what the company had been doing for days, combing through the massive piles of the treasure hoard, seeking the heart of the mountain.

“Any sign of it?” 

“Nothing yet!’ 

“Nothing here!” 

“Keep searching.” 

“That jewel could be anywhere,” someone complained. 

“The Arkenstone is in _these_ halls,” Thorin bellowed. “Find it!” 

“You heard him,” Dwalin said, ever the loyal lieutenant. “Keep looking!” 

“All of you!” Thorin called. “No one rests until it is found.”

Thorin was pacing a balcony overlooking the main hall of the treasure hoard, barking orders and watching the search for the Arkenstone. He was so preoccupied that he had not heard Kili approach and Kili waited for his uncle to notice him. _If we were not here_ , Kili thought to himself. He would have known of my presence before I even stepped foot on this balcony. Bilbo is right. There is something about this place. 

At last, Thorin saw his nephew and he walked towards him quickly, grasping Kili’s arm almost painfully. “Have you found it?” he asked. 

Thorin’s eyes burned with a hunger and a need that Kili had never seen before and his voice, though low, was filled with a quiet desperation. It made Kili’s heart ache. He wanted to alleviate his uncle’s pain but would bringing him the Arkenstone actually do that? He did not know. 

“No,” Kili answered with a shake of his head. “I have not found it.” 

Thorin released his arm immediately and began to turn away. 

“Uncle,” Kili said, hoping to hold Thorin’s attention. “May I speak with you?” 

“What is it?” Thorin asked, sounding both testy and despondent. 

“I saw Legolas at Lake-town.”

Thorin’s attention was back on Kili in an instant. “Legolas?” he repeated, turning around and stepping toward his nephew again. “What was he doing in Lake Town?” 

“He and Tauriel followed the Orcs that chased us from Mirkwood,” Kili explained. “They saved us. The Orcs tracked us to Bard’s house and ambushed us there. We were unprepared and would have been overwhelmed if Legolas and Tauriel had not arrived.” 

Kili watched as Thorin took a deep breath, processing this news. He could actually see the change in Thorin’s demeanor at the mention of the Prince’s name: relief, gratitude and a certain kind of pride. He looked more like the Thorin that Kili loved as the strange sickness fell away from him, if only temporarily. 

“Legolas is well, then?” Thorin inquired, doing his best to sound disinterested. 

“You’ve seen him fight,” Kili couldn’t help but joke. He sobered quickly at his uncle’s dark look. “The Prince can hold his own,” he said a bit more sedately, but unable to keep the mischievous grin off his face. 

“Yes, he can,” Thorin agreed and he looked deep in thought. 

“I invited him to join us,” Kili continued. “Both he and Tauriel,” he added.

At Thorin’s surprised expression, Kili began to backtrack. “Was I wrong to do so?” he asked hesitantly. “I mean, I thought that he’d done a lot to help us, y’know?” he began to rationalize. “Especially for an Elf. I also thought . . .” and here Kili hesitated even more. At his uncle’s penetrating look, the young Dwarf finished his sentence. 

“I thought you might want to see him,” Kili said very quietly.

A silence fell between them and Kili would swear that the air felt charged as he waited for his uncle’s response. 

“You were not wrong to invite him,” Thorin said at last. “Though I suppose you had ulterior motives for the invitation,” he added. “Your _friend_ , Tauriel,” he said, purposefully emphasizing the word ‘friend.’ 

Kili had the good grace to blush and he shrugged to offset the show of emotion. “I thought there’d be a better chance of her accepting if Legolas accepted too,” he admitted. “They’re close,” he said, his voice harboring no bitterness or jealousy. He couldn’t compete with Legolas’s long years of friendship with Tauriel and he wasn’t going to try. In fact, if only he could get Legolas on _his_ side…

“Close?” Thorin repeated, snapping Kili out of his thoughts.

“Oh, not like close- _close_ ,” Kili replied, his uncle’s gaze boring into him. “Not that type of close,” he tried again when his uncle’s expression didn’t change. Maybe he’d have to be more direct. “There’s nothing _romantic_ about their relationship,” he said. “I gather it’s more of a brotherly-sisterly relationship, a comrades-in-arms sort of thing.” He almost added that if Legolas were romantically involved with anyone that Thorin would know. At least, wasn’t it the type of information Thorin _should_ know? But for once, Kili was able to think before speaking. 

Thorin’s tension eased (Kili would swear it) and he nodded his head thoughtfully. “’Tis a pity he did not accept your invitation,” he said very quietly.

“He stayed to give aid to the Men of the Lake,” Kili explained. “They’ve lost everything. Smaug completely destroyed their town.” Kili was so engrossed in his explanation that he missed the sudden change in Thorin’s countenance and when he saw his uncle’s face again, he knew that he’d said something wrong. 

“The Men of the Lake,” Thorin sneered, taking another step towards Kili. 

Kili was so shocked that he almost stepped backward in response, but he managed to hold his ground. 

“Men and Elves,” Thorin said, his voice growing darker. “You must ever be on your guard against them. Those races always join forces against us.”

Kili was about to protest that it wasn’t like that at all; that Legolas’s actions were born out of kindness and mercy. The Elf had a good heart, of that Kili no longer had any doubt. The men of Lake-town were in dire straits and it was _their_ fault. It was _their_ company who had brought the wrath of dragon fire upon them. But Thorin gave him no opportunity to speak. 

“Mark my words,” the King under the Mountain said. “They will come here and they will try to take what is ours.”

~*~*~*~*~*

Legolas rode back to Mirkwood with Súlon and it had taken some convincing on his part before Tauriel would join them.

“Your father must be very angry with me,” she said. “Thranduil does not take disobedience lightly.” 

One uncomfortable look from Súlon confirmed Tauriel’s suspicions. But Legolas merely sighed and held out his hand. 

“Come, Tauriel,” he said. “I will bear the blame for our actions.” 

Tauriel shook her head. “Your father will not punish you.” 

Legolas almost laughed. “If my father wishes to punish me,” he replied. “Then he will. Come,” he said again. “We will face him together.”

Reluctantly, Tauriel grasped the Prince’s hand, deftly mounting the grey steed that Legolas rode and settling behind the Prince’s back. She had always trusted Legolas and she would trust him now. 

They rode quickly back to Mirkwood following the banks of the Forest River as it wound its way to the Elvenking’s halls. The river gate was more heavily guarded as a precaution against the return of the Orcs, although Legolas found that unlikely. The Orcs had bigger concerns now. If only he could fathom their designs for Bolg and his warg pack still weighed heavily on his mind. 

Inside Thranduil’s palace there was great commotion and activity. Everywhere Legolas looked, Elves were preparing for battle and a long journey. They briefly stopped their actions and bowed respectfully as the Prince walked by. Legolas headed straight for the alcove of his father’s throne with Súlon on his left and Tauriel on his right. He was not surprised to find his father waiting for them, an imposing figure dressed in his robes of embroidered silver and the intricate crown of berries on his head.

Súlon bowed immediately and with a nod Thranduil dismissed him. Legolas could feel the relief almost radiating off the Elven Captain as Súlon took his leave. His job as messenger was complete and he had successfully performed his task. He did not want to become involved in whatever transpired next between father and son. 

All this time, Thranduil’s gaze had remained coldly fixed on Tauriel, but he did not address her when at last he spoke. 

“What is she doing here?” Thranduil asked his son. 

Tauriel instinctively went down on one knee, bowing her head penitently. “I beg for your forgiveness, my Lord,” she said contritely.

Thranduil looked mildly appeased but his words were still harsh. “I should have you banished for such blatant disobedience,” he replied. “Rebellion is not an example I would have my soldiers follow.” 

Legolas stepped forward to intervene. “Tauriel has learned her lesson,” he said on her behalf. “Banishment is not necessary. She is still one of our best Captains and warriors. And it appears,” he added carefully. “That we are about to go to war.” 

Thranduil looked at his son long and hard. Finally, he said, “She is dismissed from my service.” 

“Then she shall be in mine,” Legolas answered smoothly. “Under my command.”

Thranduil appraised his son. Defiance from Legolas was uncommon. Often they saw eye to eye, though it was only Legolas who had the ability to temper his actions, to act as a gentle counterpoint when Thranduil would have preferred to strike a harder blow. But this was different. There was no subtlety in his son’s words and the defiance, though quiet, was strong and steadfast. Something had changed and the King suspected that it had to do with that cursed Dwarf. 

“You will bear the responsibility for her actions,” Thranduil said in a low voice. “Any future transgressions will be dealt with _severely_.” 

Legolas nodded. “ _Henion, Adar_ ,” he said, with a respectful bow. “ _Gohena-lín na daer_.” 

“This is not forgiveness,” Thranduil corrected. “I do this for you,” he said, slipping into the ancient tongue that was no longer spoken so that Tauriel would not understand. 

“Then I thank thee,” Legolas replied formally in the same ancient language. 

“Do not let your fondness for her cloud your judgment,” Thranduil went on. “She is still young, measured by our years. She does not see the world as we do.”

Legolas held his father’s gaze before he nodded again. This time he touched Tauriel on the shoulder and motioned for her to stand. Tauriel did so, eyes still downcast. 

“See to the supplies,” Legolas told her. “Food, clothing, warm blankets and whatever else may be needed.” 

Tauriel nodded, her eyes conveying her gratitude as she took leave of the king and his son. When Legolas looked back at his father, a dark amusement flickered in the king’s eyes. 

“Clothing? Warm blankets?” he repeated. “You have never cared for such niceties out in the wild.” 

“They are not for me nor for our troops,” Legolas answered. “They are for the people of Lake Town.”

Thranduil, who had turned to walk back to his carven throne stopped, hands clasped behind his back. Legolas waited patiently for his father’s reaction. 

“The destruction of the town is complete?” the King asked, already knowing the answer. He had seen it for himself through the eyes of his winged messenger. 

“There is nothing left,” Legolas replied. “Bard is leading the survivors to Dale to take shelter there.” 

“And what of the Master of the Town?” 

“Fled. Like the coward that he is.” 

“Then we are dealing with Bard?” 

“Yes.”

A thoughtful silence followed and when Thranduil said no more, Legolas walked towards him, coming to stand before the king again. Thranduil’s gaze fell on his son whom he loved above all else in this world. It had been impossible to deny Legolas anything when he had been an elfling, yet the Prince had not grown up spoiled, doted as he had been by a single parent who could offer him all that he desired. There is too much goodness in him, Thranduil had understood immediately. Legolas was a rare and precious light, even among the brightest lights of the Eldar. How Thranduil longed to shelter him from the greater evils in the world, but he knew with certainty that that time had passed, that Legolas would leave him soon, following his destiny to wherever it would lead. 

He reached out, running a thumb across Legolas’s fine-boned cheek. Physical affection between them had become so rare. “You are full of generosity today,” he murmured, his voice gentle. “First Tauriel and now the Men of the Lake.” 

“It is the right thing to do,” Legolas said, blue eyes deep and serious. “We have traded with the Men of the Lake for generations, and with the Men of Dale before them. They have fallen on hard times before, but they have remained steadfast allies.” 

“They are,” Thranduil agreed. There was a glint in his eye when he added, “Do you do this for the Men of the Lake or for a singular man who now leads them?”

Legolas let out a little sigh of exasperation but it was mixed with fondness. He and his father had danced this particular dance before, but the subject was no longer fraught with the same hostility it had once possessed, not since Legolas had ended his relationship with Bard. That had been many years ago measured by the Man’s lifetime, before Bard had wed, before his children were born, although not so much time had passed for Legolas. After Bard’s wife had passed, they would occasionally meet in the woods near the river but although the fire had not diminished in their touches, these moments of passion were fleeting and both understood them for what they were. Bard was a practical man and Legolas was an equally pragmatic Elf. They had each made their own decisions and there was no turning away from them, but they took comfort and pleasure when they could and had achieved a fine balance between friendship and passion. 

“Bard is indeed an exceptional man,” Legolas answered, playing on the double meaning of the word ‘singular.’ “But I would offer aid to the Men of the Lake no matter who was their leader. It is the right thing to do,” he repeated.

Thranduil let his hand fall from his son’s face. “I would wager,” he said. “That he still loves you. Deeply.” 

“I cannot control Bard’s feelings.” 

“But you can control your own.” 

Legolas reached out and grasped his father’s hand. “Do not fear for me, _Ada_ ,” he said, giving his father’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Bard and I have reached an understanding. It is well between us.” 

Thranduil returned his son’s grip tightly. “If you disregard everything else I say, this one thing you must always remember,” he said, his voice strained. “To love a mortal is folly. Their time on Arda is too short. To love a mortal deeply – as deeply as our race is capable of? That will lead to your ruin. I would not have that fate befall you.” 

Legolas thought his heart might burst from this tender, unguarded and wholly unexpected moment from his father. His eyes were shining and his smile radiant as he shook his head. “That shall not be my fate,” he assured the king. 

The tension in Thranduil’s expression eased and he was once more the ageless and immortal king of the Woodland Realm. He released his son’s hand but Legolas would not let go and the king looked at his son once more.

“All love carries risk,” Legolas said quietly, looking down at their joined hands. “To love deeply, as deeply as our race is capable of,” he said, repeating Thranduil’s words. “And to bestow that gift to one of our kind does not mean we will escape ruin.” 

Thranduil’s throat constricted and it seemed to him that the air in the chamber had suddenly grown very thin as though they were standing on the snowy peaks of Caradhras. They never spoke of Legolas’s mother. Never. 

“See to the supplies for the Men of Lake Town,” he said, finally pulling away from his son. “They must be well stocked for the winter. Bring enough to last them at least a month. Once we have taken proper stock of our own supplies, we will bring them more.”

“ _Ada_ , I did not mean –” Legolas began, but the king had already brushed by him and was climbing the steps to his carven throne. 

“Go,” Thranduil commanded. “See that all is prepared. We march at dawn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin translations: 
> 
> 1\. Henion, Adar. - I understand, Father.  
> 2\. Gohena-lín na daer. - This very roughly translates to, "Your forgiveness is great."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of politics and strategizing in this chapter. But if you can get through it, there will be plenty of Thorin and Legolas interaction in the next chapter. It's taking me a while to maneuver all the pieces to make said Thorin and Legolas interaction plausible.

The survivors of Lake Town were a bedraggled and beaten down group of several hundred men, women and children. There was little that could be salvaged from the ruins of their town, especially in the way of perishable goods like food and medicines. They scrounged together what they could and packed it all onto their backs for the long march to Dale. It was only Bard who kept them from collapsing completely. His orders were followed to the letter and there was no bickering among the townspeople as they set to their tasks. They trusted in Bard. The humble bargeman, descended from a noble line of great men, gave them hope. Still, the march to Dale was hard in the biting cold weather of the first frosts of winter. They had little to protect them from the elements and what they had went to the wounded and the children. They slowly made their way to the long abandoned city, over the hills and valleys of the lands that had long been known as the Desolation of Smaug. Nothing grew in the vastness; no animal lived in the uninhabited plains. The land was bleak and dead, Smaug’s desolation over it complete. 

They entered the city’s grounds on the second day of their march. Bard remembered Legolas’s words, _Look to the east in two days_ time and fervently hoped that the Elves had arrived at the ruined city before them. There was no guarantee that the Elves would indeed arrive or that they would even aid the people of Lake Town, but just as the townspeople had put their faith in Bard, so too had Bard put his faith in the Elven Prince. 

It was with a heavy heart that he saw the town unoccupied, the ruins of dragon fire still seen on the charred blackness on the stones and the walls of the once magnificent walled city. 

“C’mon, keep moving,” Bard had encouraged the townspeople as they looked at their surroundings in dismay. “We’ll make camp here tonight,” he said, never betraying the touch of despair that was starting to fill him. “Find what shelter you can. Get some fires going.” 

Instead of Elves in the city of Dale, what Bard discovered was the burning of the twin braziers on either side of the gates leading to Erebor. He watched the blazing fires in the braziers burn as the smaller fires of the survivors began to light what was left of the city of Dale. It was a sign. The company of Thorin Oakenshield had survived. Just as their fires were sending a sign to the Dwarves that they were no longer alone. 

Bard could feel the unease in his heart grow. Truthfully, he had not expected Thorin’s company to survive, perhaps at most the four dwarves who had been left behind. Thorin’s nephews, his heirs, had been among them, and Bard had thought to seek the town’s settlement from them. They seemed reasonable and good-hearted. The young, raven-haired dwarf, in particular, appeared to be on good terms with Legolas and Bard had found that promising. But now he would have to deal with the King under the Mountain and Bard was well aware of the long enmity that existed between Durin’s folk and the Elves. He told himself that his people were not involved in their affairs, but he only half-believed his own lie. Dwarves were stubborn by nature and the people of Lake Town, and of Dale before it, had remained on good terms with Thranduil’s people. If it came down to choosing sides, Bard knew who his allies were.

~*~*~*~*~

Bard awoke early the following morning. He’d slept well despite the hard stone floor and blanket that he’d called a bed. Tilda and Sigrid had shared a proper, albeit dilapidated bed found in one of the houses and Bain had slept on a makeshift cot. Bard felt reenergized after his night’s rest and as he moved through the stirring townsfolk, placating their cries of ‘The children are starving’ and ‘We won’t last another day,’ he felt an inexplicable bud of hope.

“Alfrid,” he greeted the Master’s assistant, now _his_ assistant. “What news from the night watch?” 

Alfrid yawned. “All quiet, sire,” he replied, still half-asleep. “Not much to report. Nothing gets past me.”

“Except an army of Elves, it would seem,” Bard answered as he stepped out into the courtyard, greeted by the sight of row upon row of Elves dressed in their battle array of gold and capes of red, the colors of Thranduil’s realm. They carried with them their longbows and their swords, and they stood in formation on the open spaces of the courtyards across Dale. 

Bard walked through this glittering Elven army, the Elves making a path for him as he moved among them. He could see the townspeople beginning to emerge from the buildings, gathering on the edges of the courtyard as news of the arrival of the Elves spread among his people. When he at last reached the cobbled street leading from one of the city’s gates, it was in time to see the Elvenking himself ride up on a magnificent elk, a creature of such size that it dwarfed the horses that rode behind it. One of those horses carried the Elven Prince and Bard bowed to both the king and his son as they came to a stop in front of him. 

“My Lord Thranduil,” Bard said in greeting, “and my Lord Legolas. How may I help you?” 

“We are here to help _you_ ,” Thranduil answered. “I was told,” he continued, glancing at his son. “That your people are in need.”

As the Elvenking spoke, carts laden with food and supplies entered the courtyard, drawn by teams of horses. The townspeople, who had hovered at the edge of the army, whispering amongst themselves at the rare sight of so many Elves dressed for war, began to surge forward. In moments, the carts were crowded by the survivors, hands eagerly distributing and accepting the food and supplies. 

“You have saved us,” Bard said in astonishment, as he watched the Elves who had accompanied the carts help his people. “I do not know how to thank you.” 

“Thanks are unnecessary,” Thranduil replied, an unmistakable haughtiness in his tone. “My son will assist you. I have other matters that bear attending.” 

Before Bard could say anything else, Thranduil had turned his elk on and rode away through the streets of the town, followed by a small but tight assembly of riders. Bard watched the Elvenking with concern, not realizing that Legolas had dismounted and was now standing beside him. 

“Do not worry about my father,” Legolas said, startling the man. “He will not go to war at this very moment.” 

Bard smiled weakly at the Prince. “And the team of Elves that rode away with him?” he asked. 

“My father’s war council,” Legolas answered. “They will set up camp and begin strategizing. We received word from our advanced scouts that the braziers burned throughout the night in Erebor. It would seem that Thorin Oakenshield and his company survived after all.”

“Yes,” Bard agreed. “There is once more a King under the Mountain.” He looked at the Prince thoughtfully. “You do not seem overly concerned that your father is embarking on war.” 

“I am _most_ concerned,” Legolas assured him with a firm look. “But I have greater priorities at this time,” he said, his expression softening. 

This time the smile that Bard gave the Prince was warm and genuine. “I thought Elves were known for their punctuality,” he said, teasing the Prince for being a day late. 

Legolas arched a golden brow, looking so much like Thranduil and radiating the Elvenking’s aloofness that Bard was somewhat disconcerted. But then the Prince slipped his arm into Bard’s as he lead the Man in the direction of the distribution of the Elvish goods, also replying in a teasing tone, “What is that human expression? Better late than never?” 

Bard laughed, placing his other hand on top of Legolas’s arm. _All would be well_ , he thought. Now that his old friend was here.

~*~*~*~*~

Legolas stood on one of the wide courtyards in Dale with Tauriel on his right and Súlon on his left. Behind him was a company of Elves, one of the companies under his command. Even from the great distance he could see with perfect clarity where his father waited at the bridge that crossed the threshold into Dale and much further along into the very gates of Erebor, where Bard had dismounted and was now speaking to Thorin through one of the stone crevices in the newly barricaded gate.

“That should be you,” Tauriel said quietly at his side. 

Legolas inclined his head towards her in a questioning manner. 

“That should be you,” Tauriel repeated. “Negotiating with Thorin.” 

“Bard’s people have the greatest claim – and the greatest need – of the riches in that mountain,” Legolas answered. “Thorin made a deal with the people of Lake Town, one that he should honor. It is just that Bard represent his people.” 

“And your father’s claim?” Tauriel asked. 

Legolas’s expression grew grim. “That is another matter,” he said tightly. 

“One that may still lead to war,” Tauriel finished for him. 

The Prince did not respond. 

“When I said that it should be you negotiating,” Tauriel began again. “It was not a question of justice to which I referred.” 

“Then to what were you referring?” Legolas asked dryly, deciding against his better judgment to take her bait. 

“Merely that negotiations are likely to go more smoothly if _you_ were to speak to Thorin,” Tauriel answered. 

There was a slight warning in Legolas’s eyes when he glanced at his old friend, the direction of his gaze discreetly leading to Súlon. Beside him the other Elven Captain had shifted slightly, aware that the conversation between the Prince and Tauriel was approaching personal territory that he should probably not be privy to. Tauriel, on the other hand, took no notice of this or simply did not care. When she and Legolas were alone, they did not stand on formality.

“You have a better relationship with Thorin Oakenshield than Bard and the king combined,” Tauriel went on. “He would at least hear what you have to say.” 

“Thorin is having an audience with Bard right now,” Legolas reminded her. 

“Not just _hear_ ,” Tauriel persisted. “He would take what you say seriously. He _likes_ you.” 

At this, Legolas shot her a more severe warning look and Tauriel was suitably chastised. Súlon looked like he wanted to melt into the courtyard. 

“It is of no matter now,” Legolas answered, watching as Bard rode back to his father. 

The King and the bowman conversed briefly and when Thranduil drew his sword, the fine handcrafted latticework on its sharp blade glinting in the morning light, Legolas knew with certainty that they were headed for war.

~*~*~*~*~

In Legolas’s tent, Bard paced agitatedly.

“I do not understand,” the man kept saying. “Why would Thorin risk war? It is sheer folly. Can he not see how grossly outnumbered he is?” 

Legolas, who was sitting cross-legged on the cot that had been placed in his tent – a rather wide and comfortable cot, warmly covered by blankets – patted the space beside him. Bard looked at the Elf for a moment before sitting down with a resigned air. Legolas passed him the goblet of wine that he had been drinking and watched as Bard took a long drink. 

“Dwarves are known for their stubbornness,” Legolas said. “And in that sense, Thorin Oakenshield is the epitome of his race.” 

“You’re saying that war is inevitable,” Bard said with a sigh. 

“Perhaps,” Legolas agreed. “But perhaps it may also be delayed.” 

This caught the man’s attention. “Delayed?” he repeated. “How?” 

“I will speak to Thorin myself. Tonight, while everyone else is at rest.” 

“Tonight?” Bard said, hating his own repetitiveness. “How?” 

“It is not so very difficult to climb the gates of Erebor,” Legolas answered. _For an Elf_ remained unsaid.

“And who is to say that Thorin won’t shoot you on the spot or put you in chains?” Bard asked dubiously. 

“It is unlikely,” Legolas hedged. When Bard’s look told him that that was an insufficient answer, the Prince continued. “I came to know Thorin when he was a prisoner in my father’s dungeons.” 

“Is that what the dwarves were doing there?” Bard asked. “When I saw the condition of those barrels, I knew things had ended poorly but I didn’t actually think they’d been prisoners of your father.” 

Legolas nodded. “Prisoners for nearly a month,” he confirmed. “They had a clever escape plan,” he admitted. “But it was the surprise attack from the Orcs chasing them that truly allowed them to escape.” 

“These are the same Orcs that attacked my home,” Bard said, remembering Bain’s story. 

“Yes,” Legolas replied. “I am yet to understand their full intentions. It is a puzzle that needs solving.” 

“Thank you,” Bard said suddenly, putting his hand on the Elf’s knee. “For saving my family. Bain says they would have been killed if you and your friend had not arrived.” 

Legolas smiled, smoothing an unruly lock of Bard’s hair behind his ear. “I am glad I was there for them,” he said sincerely. 

Bard nodded. He did not remove his hand and Legolas did not mind the contact. After a short silence, Bard spoke again. 

“Are you saying the Dwarf fancies you?” Bard asked, returning to their previous topic. 

Legolas’s laugh was light and musical. “I would not presume to make so bold a statement,” he replied. 

But Bard did not laugh or smile in return. “Then do you fancy the Dwarf?” he asked instead. 

Legolas considered the question, his expression growing thoughtful. “I find the Dwarf intriguing,” he said at last. “It is the unlikeliest and most unexpected of friendships that we have formed, tentative and new though it may be.” 

“I would not be surprised if the Dwarf fancies you,” Bard said quietly, almost to himself. “I suppose all who know you must come to love you in some way.” He looked at Legolas suddenly, his expression startled as though he hadn’t meant to say his last thought aloud. 

Legolas put his hand on top of the man’s and said, “That is high praise, indeed.” 

“It is the difference between you and your father,” Bard replied. “The loyalty Thranduil inspires is born out of fear and respect. The loyalty you inspire is born out of love.” 

“Then you and I are cut from the same cloth,” Legolas answered. “For soon you will be the next Lord of Dale like your forebears before you.” 

Bard shook his head ruefully. “You always do that,” he said, half-accusingly but there was no heat behind his words. At Legolas’s inquiring look, he added, “You find a way to turn my words against me.” 

Legolas’s smile was sly. “I said nothing but the truth,” he replied. “As I thought you were speaking the truth to me.” Before Bard could say anything else, Legolas continued. “Have your family moved into this tent.” When Bard shook his head in protest, Legolas’s grip on the man’s hand tightened. “You are my guests,” he said, his voice brooking no argument. “There is more than enough room for all of you and this tent is far more comfortable than whatever cold room you have found in Dale. I will have additional cots brought in for your children.” 

“Only for my children?” Bard finally asked, the teasing lilt back in his voice. 

Legolas leaned in, breath warm over Bard’s face. “My bed is your bed,” he replied. 

Bard couldn’t take the sudden tension that had arisen between them and he leaned in as well, meeting the Elf half way. He was just about to kiss the Prince when an embarrassed cough had him pulling back. Legolas did not move, save for the slight tilting of his head to better see who had interrupted them. 

It was Súlon, standing just inside the flap of the tent and looking more embarrassed than ever. 

“My Lord Legolas,” he said formally. “Your father requests your presence immediately. And yours as well, Lord Bard,” the Elven Captain added. 

Bard actually flinched at the use of his title. 

“We will be there shortly,” Legolas answered, nodding to indicate that Súlon was dismissed. The Elven Captain bowed and then disappeared as silently as he had arrived. 

“Well, Lord Bard,” Legolas teased. 

Bard sighed. “Your captain has terrible timing,” he said. 

“Not so terrible,” Legolas answered, stealing a kiss before Bard could object.

~*~*~*~*~

“Gandalf,” Legolas said with surprise and joy when he entered his father’s official tent, used for strategizing and receiving guests. Thranduil had a separate personal tent that he would retire to for privacy and sleep.

“Legolas Greenleaf,” the wizard replied, striding towards the Prince. His sounded distinctly relieved at Legolas’s arrival and when Legolas hazarded a look at his father, the faint expression of irritation that he saw there led him to conclude that the king and the wizard had been having an unpleasant discussion. It was not an uncommon occurrence between them. 

Thranduil poured himself another goblet of wine while Legolas introduced Bard. 

“This is Bard,” Legolas told Gandalf. “The descendent of Girion of Dale and the dragon slayer who brought down Smaug.” 

“A pleasure to meet you, Lord Bard,” Gandalf said. 

“The pleasure is mine, Gandalf the Grey,” Bard answered. 

“Now that those niceties are over,” Thranduil cut in, his voice testy and exasperated. “Mithrandir has some news that he would like to share with us.” It was clear that the Elvenking had already heard the news from the wizard. 

Gandalf’s expression grew grave. “You must set aside your petty grievances with the dwarves,” he said seriously. “War is coming. The cesspits of Dol Guldur have been emptied. You’re all in mortal danger.” 

Legolas would swear that his father was trying not to roll his eyes, except that such an action would be beneath the Woodland King. Even the Prince had to admit that Gandalf’s proclamation and the gravity with which it had been said, had taken him by surprise. Nevertheless, he maintained a serious countenance, especially since the wizard had been looking at him intently the entire time he had spoken. Beside Legolas, Bard looked completely perplexed. 

“What are you talking about?” the man asked. 

“I can see you know nothing of wizards,” the Elvenking cut in again, his patience all but evaporated. “They are like winter thunder on a wild wind rolling in from a distance and breaking hard. But sometimes,” Thranduil paused. “A storm is just a storm.” 

“Not this time,” Gandalf said slowly, enunciating every word. He still had not broken eye contact with Legolas and the Prince felt that there was an underlying message that the wizard wanted to convey. 

“Armies of Orcs are on the move,” Gandalf continued, looking at Thranduil again. “These are fighters. They have been bred for war. Our enemy has summoned his full strength.” 

Thranduil remained unconvinced. “Why show his hand now?” 

“Because we forced him!” Gandalf exclaimed, finally losing his patience as well. “We forced him when the company of Thorin Oakenshield set out to reclaim their homeland. The dwarves were never meant to reach Erebor. Azog the Defiler was sent to kill them. His master seeks control of the mountain. Not just for the treasure within, but for where it lies, its strategic position.” 

Here Legolas’s eyes lit up with this new knowledge. Gandalf was providing the proof for what he had suspected since Thorin Oakenshield and his company had been prisoners in his father’s dungeons. 

“This is true,” the Prince confirmed, looking at his father. “This is the reason why one of our gates was attacked in Mirkwood. Not by Azog,” he said, glancing at Gandalf. “But by Bolg, his spawn. There is more,” Legolas continued. “A companion and I followed Bolg to Lake Town where Bolg continued to track Thorin’s company from the forest. Once Bolg discovered that Thorin had reached Erebor, he abandoned his search. From Lake Town I followed Bolg to the edge of Esgaroth where a warg pack awaited him. They journeyed into the north and I gave up the chase. But these Orcs,” Legolas said, looking first at his father and then Gandalf. “They were different. They bore a mark I have not seen in a long time, the mark of Gundabad.” 

“Gundabad,” Gandalf gasped. 

Even Thranduil’s expression had grown hard at this revelation from his son. This was the first time that the Elvenking was hearing of Bolg and the Gundabad Orcs and he was just as surprised as Gandalf. 

“What is Gundabad?” Bard asked, a distinct note of resignation in his voice. 

“Gundabad is an Orc stronghold north of the Misty Mountains,” Legolas told him. “It is a great fortress that once housed the armory for the kingdom of Angmar. It is where they built their weapons of war.” 

“If an alliance has formed between the Dol Guldur and Gundabad, then the enemy will approach the mountain on two fronts,” Gandalf said, deeply disturbed by Legolas’s news. 

“These Orc armies you speak of, Mithrandir,” Thranduil said at last. “Where are they?” 

The wizard remained silent, for the truth was he did not know. There had been no sign of them as he had sped to Dale from Radagast’s sanctuary. 

“Father,” Legolas said. “There is no need to attack at dawn.” 

The flash in Thranduil’s eyes warned Legolas that he was treading on dangerous ground but the matter was too great for the Prince not to persevere. 

“Thorin is not going anywhere,” Legolas explained. “He has just reclaimed Erebor. Our army could lay siege to the mountain. There does not have to be a confrontation.” 

“You would starve out the Dwarf and his companions?” Thranduil half-mocked. “A siege in this instance would backfire. It would give Thorin Oakenshield time to call for reinforcements. Already word has spread far and wide of Smaug’s demise. It will not be long before the Dwarves from the seven kingdoms flock to their King’s banner. The ravens have returned to Erebor. Thorin’s kin may already be on their way.” 

“There is also the matter of the season,” Bard said, reluctantly joining the conversation. “I do not want war, but a siege will also be difficult to maintain in the harshness of winter.” 

“The siege would be temporary,” Legolas persisted. “It is a stratagem to buy us time.” 

“Time for what?” Thranduil questioned, his irritation flaring. 

“Time to gather information,” Gandalf answered, nodding approvingly at the Prince. He had already divined the meaning behind Legolas’s plan. “We need to know what our enemy is doing. Orcs are the common foe of all the free races of Middle-earth and we must be united when they descend upon Erebor.” 

“I will ride to Gundabad in the morning,” Legolas told his father. “I will get the proof that we need.” 

Thranduil still looked displeased but he nodded and the matter appeared to be settled.

~*~*~*~*~

Once outside Thranduil’s tent, Gandalf walked with Legolas. The hour was growing late and Bard had disappeared to find his children and to bring them to Legolas’s tent at the Prince’s behest. The wizard pulled out his long pipe and began to clean it as they walked. Legolas eyed the pipe warily. The wizard knew how he felt about pipe weed, but he didn’t think that would prevent Gandalf from smoking tonight. The wizard was looking slightly the worse for wear but Legolas made no mention of it.

“That was quick thinking in there,” Gandalf finally said, referring to Legolas’s siege scenario. 

The Elf smiled. “I had already decided to put forth the idea of a siege before you arrived,” he informed the wizard. “I do not want war with the Dwarves. But your news certainly helped convince my father that the siege is a viable short-term option.” 

“I would say that it was _your_ news of the Gundabad orcs that was more convincing,” Gandalf challenged lightly. 

Legolas nodded. “Perhaps,” he agreed. They fell into a companionable silence as Gandalf at last lit his pipe. “Why did you leave Thorin’s company outside the border of our forest?” Legolas asked after a moment. “Your need must have been great.”

They had arrived at one of the smaller courtyards that faced north, overlooking the mountain. The braziers were again burning brightly in the cold night. 

Gandalf remained silent, smoking his pipe. The wizard was still and he looked deeply troubled. At length, he said, “I went to the Dol Guldur to confirm if the stories of the fortress were true, to see what evil lay there.” 

“The Necromancer?” 

Gandalf shook his head. “A far greater and much older evil,” he answered. “It has slumbered and lain dormant in that dark fortress as it gathered its strength. But now it has called its servants forth and it will reign war upon us again.”

“We have all been deceived,” Legolas said softly. He thought of the Orc that he had interrogated, of the creature’s threats that the time of the Elves had ended, that the age of the Orc had come. He inwardly shuddered. 

They fell into another silence as Gandalf smoked his pipe and Legolas’s keen gaze swept over the ramparts of Erebor. 

“Thorin should be told,” the Elf said at last. 

“And how would you propose to do that?” the wizard asked, sounding vaguely amused. 

“I will do it,” Legolas replied. “It was always my intention to speak to Thorin tonight,” he revealed. “The matter has only grown in urgency.”

Gandalf’s eyes were twinkling in the starlit night. “And what has happened that Thorin Oakenshield would receive you when he would not stand in the same room as your father on pain of death?” 

“Friendship may spring up in the most unlikeliest of places and at the most unlikeliest of times,” Legolas answered. 

“You care about him,” Gandalf said a little wonderingly. 

“I do,” Legolas said simply. “And I will do all that I can to avert war or to redirect it to a common foe.”

“Thorin may not be the same Dwarf that you met in your father’s dungeons,” Gandalf said soberly. “There is a chance . . .” the wizard trailed off. 

“You speak of the dragon sickness,” Legolas finished for him. 

Gandalf nodded. “It is in Durin’s line.” 

“Thorin is not his father nor his grandfather before him. If he has been afflicted, I believe he has the strength to overcome it.” 

“You have a good heart, son of Thranduil.” 

“And you are a wise wizard, Gandalf the Grey.”


	10. Chapter 10

Bilbo was sitting on the stone floor of the ramparts at Erebor. It was his turn to take watch and he really should have been paying more attention but he was too depressed. It was cold and he was feeling homesick. What he wouldn’t give for his comfortable armchair, a warm fire and a good book. Not to mention a freshly cooked meat pie, maybe some eggs, fresh fruits and vegetables, a bit of cheese, and a pint of ale, anything but the cram that they’d been eating for days. Bilbo wasn’t ungrateful. On the contrary, he was thankful for the cram – it was filling, it would keep for weeks – but it left a lot to be desired when it came to flavor and taste. 

Several more hours of sitting in the cold night, Bilbo thought miserably. In one of the guard towers, Bombur was sleeping soundly. Bilbo would wake the dwarf when it was his turn to take watch, but until then he was on his own . . . or so he thought. 

“Is this how a dwarf stays on duty during the night watch of Erebor?” a musical voice asked.

Startled, Bilbo jumped up. He recognized that voice! When he turned around, he saw the Elven Prince sitting casually in between one of the ramparts, one of his legs dangling over the edge, a fey smile on his face. 

Bilbo curbed the urge to rush over and hug the Elf – that would hardly be appropriate behavior. Instead, he spoke calmly, secretly impressed with his own composure. 

“Well, first of all,” he began. “I’m not a dwarf, I’m a hobbit. Secondly, I’m not really part of the night watch. I’m more of an honorary member,” he corrected.

“Are you not in the service of Thorin Oakenshield?” Legolas inquired politely. 

“Err, well, yes,” Bilbo said. “But my contract is to burgle, not so much all the other stuff. Fighting orcs and goblins –” 

“And giant spiders?” Legolas finished.

Bilbo grinned, unable to contain himself any longer. When the Elf swung himself over the rampart and landed lightly on the other side, Bilbo did move forward. Before Legolas could react, he was being hugged by the hobbit. Bilbo didn’t care anymore about what was appropriate behavior or not, or how strange his actions must have seemed to the Prince who had only met the hobbit once before in the cellars of the Elvenking’s halls as the company was making their escape. Bilbo privately considered Legolas to be his friend and he was very, _very_ happy to see the Prince. Everything had gone pear-shaped since Thorin had become King under the Mountain and the hobbit hoped that Legolas would be able to set some things right. 

Legolas was indeed surprised by the hobbit’s affectionate reaction, but after a moment’s hesitation he responded in kind. His brief encounter with Bilbo Baggins had made quite an impression on him. 

“How did you get up here?” Bilbo asked when he at last let go of the Prince. 

“I climbed,” Legolas replied simply. 

Bilbo peered over the ledge where the Elf had appeared. “Without a rope?” he asked dubiously. It was so dark that he could hardly see anything and it was a very long way down. 

The Elf merely laughed his musical laugh. “Without a rope,” he confirmed.

Bilbo looked back at Legolas. The Elf’s silken hair was caught by the moonlight and the Prince had never looked more ethereal to him. For a moment he was literally struck dumb by the Elf’s otherworldly beauty. 

“What are you doing here?” Bilbo asked eventually, hoping that he already knew the answer. 

“I came to speak to Thorin,” Legolas replied, his tone more serious than before. 

The hobbit nodded but he looked deeply unhappy to the Prince.

“Will he not see me?” Legolas asked when Bilbo didn’t respond. 

“Yes,” Bilbo answered. “I’m certain Thorin will want to see you. It’s just . . .” 

“Just what?” Legolas prodded gently. 

Bilbo dropped his voice even though they were alone on the ramparts. Still, Legolas clearly heard every word the hobbit said.

“He’s not the same,” Bilbo whispered. “He’s quick to anger. He’s possessive. And jealous. He thinks of nothing but the treasure and he’s completely obsessed over the Arkenstone. Until the survivors from Lake Town began streaming into Dale, we’d done nothing but search for the Arkenstone. For days! He prizes it above all else.” The hobbit sighed. He sounded defeated. “I’m afraid for him. I’m afraid of what he’ll do and I do not know how to help him.” 

Legolas remained silent. Gandalf’s fears had come true. 

“Balin says it’s dragon sickness,” Bilbo went on. “He’s seen it before in Thorin’s grandfather.”

This time Legolas nodded. “Can you take me to him?” 

Bilbo looked at the Prince searchingly before nodding. “We’ll have to be quick and quiet,” he said. “I’m supposed to be on guard.” 

“Lead on, Master Baggins,” Legolas said.

~*~*~*~*~

The Elf and the Hobbit walked down the staircase from the ramparts and into the wreckage of the entrance hall. The Elf’s steps were silent and the Hobbit’s nearly so. Bilbo had a good idea of where to find Thorin and he was leading the Prince to the great treasure hoard of Erebor when a booming voice stopped them.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Legolas spun around, automatically reaching for his bow but having the presence of mind not to draw it. He did not want to look like a threat. Beside him, the hobbit jumped and endeared himself even more to Prince when he stepped in front of Legolas as though he meant to shield him. 

Before them was Thorin’s lieutenant, the rather large and angry-looking Dwalin. 

“What is he doing here?” Dwalin bellowed, stepping towards Legolas threateningly. 

Bilbo stepped even closer to Legolas. 

“I am here to see Thorin,” Legolas answered as calmly as possible. 

“Why? So you can cast more of your Elvish magic upon him?” Dwalin accused him. 

The commotion was drawing the attention of the rest of the company and they began to appear in the great hall, coming from different rooms where they had been roused from their sleep. 

“I have cast no magic upon Thorin,” Legolas replied, holding Dwalin’s gaze. 

“I wouldn’t trust an Elf,” Dwalin said, his voice lowering but still simmering with rage. “Especially the son of the King that held us prisoner.”

“Legolas!” 

It was Kili. He’d broken through the standoff between Dwalin and the Prince and he looked between the two parties, quickly taking stock of the situation. 

“I invited him,” the young dwarf said in a rush. “Back in Lake Town. He and Tauriel saved us from the Orcs that attacked Bard’s home. And . . . I invited him to join us,” he repeated. 

“Why would you do that?” Dwalin asked. He looked aghast, as though he didn’t recognize Kili. 

“Because . . . because . . .” Kili floundered. 

“Because he’s our friend!” Bilbo jumped in. 

“He’s no friend of mine!” Dwalin snarled. 

“But he’s a friend of mine.”

The escalating tension was cut like a knife. The group that had gathered around Legolas and Dwalin parted and everyone looked in the direction of the voice that had spoken. It was Thorin. The King under the Mountain stood apart from the gathering, his gaze directed solely at Legolas. There was a marked difference in Thorin’s appearance. Legolas could see this straight away. It wasn’t merely the kingly attire that Thorin now wore or the golden crown on his head; it was the paleness of the Dwarf’s complexion, a kind of hollowness that was in his eyes. 

“Legolas is my guest,” Thorin told the others. “You will treat him accordingly.” He looked back at the Prince and he stretched out his hand in a gesture of welcome.

Legolas nodded in acknowledgement, giving Bilbo’s shoulder a small squeeze as he took his leave of the hobbit. The company of dwarves began to disperse, returning to their various rooms, save for Dwalin who watched his king and the Elven Prince a moment longer. 

“You look well,” Thorin said to Legolas when the Elf stood beside him.

The Prince tilted his head and Thorin felt the weight of his ancient gaze so often buried beneath the Elf’s deceptively youthful appearance. “You look different,” the Prince said at last, his voice carefully neutral. 

“Perhaps it is because I am not behind bars nor at the mercy of your bow,” Thorin replied harshly. 

Legolas drew back imperceptibly. He remembered the Dwarf’s mercurial temper, but there was a cruelty behind his words that had not been there before. Truly, Thorin was changed. But just as quickly as the viciousness had come, it evaporated and Thorin gestured to the wide hall in which they were standing. 

“Is it as you remember?” he asked, his voice more subdued. He was referring to the majesty of Erebor.

In another attempt to gauge the Dwarf’s temperament, Legolas answered lightly, “I remember that there was a great deal more light and it did not quite smell so much of dragon.” 

Thorin looked like he was about to take offense, but then the Dwarf burst out of laughing, his mirth reaching his eyes and removing some of the shadows there. It lifted Legolas’s heart to see this Thorin. 

“It will take a while to remove the smell,” Thorin agreed, a faint smile on his face. “When more of my kin arrive, we can devise a ventilation system to speed up the process.” 

A silence fell between them, but it was comfortable, similar to the peaceful silences they had shared at the dead of night in the Elvenking’s dungeons. 

“Will you walk with me?” Thorin eventually asked and Legolas nodded.

The Elf fell into step beside the Dwarf, following wherever Thorin would lead. Knowing that Bilbo had been taking him to the treasure hoard of Erebor, Legolas assumed that Thorin would bring him there as well. Instead, the Dwarf veered off towards what Legolas knew had once been the wing reserved for members of the royal family. This hallway was lit with even fewer torches and the silence was almost oppressive. It made Legolas uneasy, but he quelled his concerns. He trusted Thorin and knew that the madness had not taken hold of the Dwarf completely. Thorin could be brought back, he was certain of it. At length, they stopped in front of a wide door, which Thorin opened, motioning for Legolas to step inside. The Elf entered the room. It was a bedroom, a very large and spacious one. It had been cleaned and unlike the hallway, it was well lit. The fire burning in the brazier ensured that it was warm. Legolas stopped inside the threshold, hearing Thorin close the door behind him. 

“My old room,” Thorin explained, moving past the Elf.

Legolas’s keen gaze swept the room. “It has remained undamaged,” he observed. 

“Fortunately, so,” Thorin agreed. “The family wing was not burned by dragon fire. Our heirlooms, trinkets, and mementos – everything is as it was on the day that we evacuated, albeit buried under dust and disuse.” 

The Elf smiled. “I am very glad to hear that,” he said. “Have you been playing housekeeper?” he asked, referring to the general cleanliness of the room. 

Thorin laughed again. “No,” he said with a shake of head. “That would be Dori and Ori. They like things to be tidy and orderly.” He paused. “Would you care to sit?” he asked, motioning to the large table where many years ago he had sometimes taken his meals in privacy. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you refreshment.”

Legolas shook his head. “Thank you but refreshment is not necessary. Here,” he said, taking out a pouch. “For you.” 

“What is it?” Thorin asked. He opened the pouch curiously. The Elf always seemed to be giving him things. 

“I hear it’s the best pipe weed in the South Farthing,” Legolas replied. “But I am not well versed in such matters.”

Thorin knew the Elf was right the minute the first waft of the leaves drifted out of the pouch. He inhaled deeply, unable to keep the contented smile off his face. “Bilbo would be very pleased to have some of this,” he remarked. 

“Perhaps you could share it with him,” Legolas suggested. “He seemed very homesick on the ramparts.”

“Homesick,” Thorin repeated. Somehow, the idea of the hobbit being so far from his home and in a strange land among all sorts of strange people had slipped from Thorin’s mind. Of course, Bilbo would be homesick. 

His attention returned to the Elf who had opted to sit down, but not at the great table that Thorin had shown him. Instead, the Elf was sitting at the foot of his king-sized bed looking for all the world like he belonged there. At least, that’s what Thorin thought. The Prince _belonged_ in his bed. 

“And what are _you_ doing here?” Thorin asked, a touch of coldness and possession in his voice. “Are you once again speaking on behalf of your father? Do you wish to plead for the cause of the men of Lake Town? Will you reclaim your kin’s lost heirlooms?” 

For the second time that night Legolas was struck by the sudden change in Thorin’s demeanor, though it was not as radical as before. 

“No, my father does not know that I am here,” Legolas answered. “Nor do I think he would approve of my visit were he to find out,” he added. “I do not plead anyone’s cause nor anyone’s claim. I am here to see you.” 

The Prince’s words seemed to ease the Dwarf’s concerns, and Legolas watched as some of Thorin’s earlier tension bled away. 

“The pipe weed,” Legolas began again, “is a gift. From Gandalf.” 

“Gandalf?” Thorin repeated in surprise. “He is here?” 

“Yes,” Legolas confirmed. “He is with us in Dale. He arrived earlier this afternoon and he brings ill tidings with him; news that I would share with you for it concerns us all.”

“What is this news?” Thorin asked, the Elf’s grave manner concerning him. He found himself sitting beside the Prince on the bed. 

“Gandalf believes that there is an army of Orcs marching towards Erebor from Dol Guldur. He says they are lead by Azog the Defiler.” 

At the mention of the pale Orc’s name, a flash of anger marred Thorin’s features but before he could speak, Legolas had placed a hand on his arm. The Dwarf was so shocked by the gesture that he didn’t pull away, merely looked down at the Elf’s elegant and long-fingered hand. 

“That is not all,” Legolas continued seriously.

Thorin managed to tear his gaze away from where the Elf was touching him, but then he felt even more trapped by the blue gaze that was so near his own. _Dwalin is right_ , he thought. _It is a kind of magic that he casts_. Thorin forced himself to focus on the Elf’s words. 

“I followed the Orcs that tracked your company from Mirkwood,” Legolas was saying. “I recognized their leader. His name is Bolg, spawn of Azog the Defiler. They escaped into the north, beyond the Misty Mountains. A warg pack was waiting for Bolg at the edge of Esgaroth. But these Orcs, Thorin, they bore the mark of Gundabad.” 

“What are you saying, Legolas?” 

“I am saying,” Legolas said slowly. “That there is a chance that two Orc armies are marching on Erebor at this very moment. They will try to take the mountain for themselves.” 

Thorin remained silent. “And what does Gandalf say?” he asked after a long while.

“He and I are of a like mind.” 

“And your father? What are his thoughts?” 

“My father and Gandalf do not always see eye-to-eye,” the Prince admitted. “He does not put as much faith in Mithrandir as I do.” The Elf paused. “Nor as much faith as you have shown in Gandalf,” he added carefully. 

Thorin’s expression was hard as he looked at the Prince. “So, this news has not deterred your father from his intentions. He will still attack at dawn?”

“No,” Legolas said, his hand trailing up Thorin’s arm before stopping and then moving back down again. The gesture may have meant to comfort but Thorin also found it terribly distracting. Yet somehow he managed to hold the Elf’s gaze. “My father will not attack at dawn. I have convinced him to lay siege to the mountain.” 

“Lay siege to the mountain?” Thorin repeated, his expression growing even harder. “That is your solution?” 

“It is _not_ a solution,” Legolas corrected. “But it is also the lesser of two evils. I would delay outright war for as long as possible.”

“Then you delay the inevitable,” Thorin said in disgust, brushing off the Elf’s grip on his arm as he stood up. He began to pace in front of the Prince. 

“Perhaps,” Legolas agreed, remaining calm in the face of Thorin’s agitation. “But I also hope that when war comes, it will not be between the races of Dwarves, Elves and Men, but against our common foe – a far greater Enemy – one that we defeated once before.” 

Thorin paused, his expression still severe. “How do I know that you speak the truth?” he challenged. “That this is not just an Elvish ruse to lower my guard?”

Legolas was unperturbed despite Thorin’s cutting accusation. “Have I given you cause to doubt my word before?” he asked. When the Dwarf did not reply, the Prince continued. “Perhaps this will convince you that my word is true.” He drew out the blade at his side, the ancient sword from Gondolin and laid it flat on his hands, presenting it to Thorin. “On the night of your capture in Mirkwood, I told you that if you ever left my father’s dungeons that I would return this to you.” He lifted the blade towards the Dwarf. “My word is my bond, Thorin Oakenshield. Take this sword as a token of my friendship and as a sign that I bear you no ill will.” 

Thorin was stunned by the Elf’s quiet words and the heartfelt sincerity that lay beneath them. _Yes_ , he thought. _This Elven Prince, the son of my enemy, is truly my friend_. This new friendship was inexplicably precious to him, like the rarest of jewels uncovered in a dark mine, found where least expected. Thorin put his hand on the Elven blade but did not lift it from the Prince’s grasp. 

“I accept your token, Prince of the Woodland Realm,” Thorin replied, slipping into the stately language used between diplomatic emissaries. “But this sword, forged by your kin in another age, that bears with it the history of the great battles and wars that it has fought, belongs with your people. It is yours, Legolas of Greenwood, so that one of noble blood may carry the sword’s tradition forth. In exchange I ask but one thing.” Here Thorin paused, a small well of nervousness pooling in his chest, making it slightly difficult to breathe but none of his anxiety neither showed on his face nor was heard in his voice. 

“I would ask for more of your time.”

At the Elf’s curious look, Thorin elaborated. “Would you stay with me tonight?” His gaze inadvertently drifted to the wide bed on which Legolas sat and he was mortified that the Elf would misinterpret his meaning. “Not for that,” he said quickly, for the first time betraying his nervousness. “That is not why I ask. It is merely –” He broke off and pulled away from the Prince, but Legolas was too quick. 

In a single movement, the Elf had put down the sword and had grasped Thorin’s hand before the Dwarf could move away. “I will stay,” he answered without hesitation. “If my presence comforts you in some way, then it is an honor to stay.” 

Thorin looked at their joined hands, and he returned the Elf’s grip. “Your presence gives me peace,” he whispered, hardly believing the words coming out of his mouth. “It was true in your father’s dungeons and it is true now. I know not why.”

“Then do not be troubled tonight,” Legolas said gently. With his other hand, he reached out and traced the side of Thorin’s face, fingers lingering over the coarser hair of the Dwarf’s beard as though it fascinated him. Thorin leaned into the touch, briefly shutting his eyes. 

“You should rest,” Legolas was saying. “You look tired.” 

Thorin felt the tiredness in his bones, a kind of fatigue that he had not experienced before; not when the Dwarves had first been exiled from Erebor and they had wandered the lands homeless and destitute; not when he had slaved away in the cities of men, enduring their insults and concealing his identity as the heir to the throne of Erebor.

“Come,” Legolas said, standing up. 

The Elf had still not released his hand and he tugged Thorin to one side of the great bed. The bed’s covers remained undisturbed, save for the spot where Legolas had been seated. Indeed, the bed looked like it had not been slept in at all and that was the truth, for Thorin had only had a few hours rest since reclaiming Erebor and none of that time had been in anyplace as comfortable as a bed.

Legolas removed the heavy robe that Thorin was wearing and proceeded to strip the Dwarf of his other outer clothing. Thorin did not object. In fact, he was surprisingly pliant to the Elf’s touch, assisting Legolas where he could. 

“Am I to be stripped and put to bed like a child?” Thorin lightly teased as he held up his arms so that Legolas could pull off his outer tunic. 

“Stripped and put to bed like a King,” Legolas answered in that same teasing tone.

The Dwarf chuckled, waiting patiently as the Elf pulled down the covers and then he climbed into the bed. For a moment, he was afraid that the Elf would leave, but then Legolas also began to strip, removing first his weapons and setting them down on a bureau against the wall. Thorin watched the Prince’s actions with heavily lidded eyes, wishing he could also help as Legolas had helped him, but now that he was lying down, sleep was rapidly threatening to overtake him. 

When the Elf at last got into the bed beside him, Thorin turned over on his side so that he was facing the Prince. Legolas was lying on his back, the picture of perfect stillness. Thorin reached out, taking the Elf’s right hand into his, grateful when he felt the Elf’s fingers close around his own.


	11. Chapter 11

It was still dark when the Prince woke, the embers of the brazier burning low. Once he remembered where he was, he also remembered that no morning light would filter into Thorin’s bedroom. Beside him, he knew that the Dwarf was also awake. In fact, he was well aware of being watched, that he had, perhaps, been watched for some time. 

“I did not realize that Elves slept with their eyes open,” Thorin said.

Legolas turned his head. Thorin was still in the same position in which he had fallen asleep, on his side and facing Legolas, their hands still joined. Legolas shifted so that he too was laying on his side facing the Dwarf. 

“How could you know such a thing when you have never seen an Elf sleep before?” Legolas questioned.

“It is disconcerting,” Thorin admitted. “Another difference between our races.” _Another reason why the Eldar seem so strange, so foreign to mortals_ , he thought. 

“Did you sleep well?” 

“Better than I have slept since we arrived in Erebor.” 

The Elf smiled. “Good,” he said, evidently pleased. “You look better. There is more color in your complexion and the circles under your eyes aren’t so pronounced.” 

Thorin watched with dismay as the Prince sat up. He’d been too tired the previous eve to notice that Legolas had undone his braids, but now he saw that the Elf’s hair flowed freely behind him and the sight seemed strangely intimate to him, a kind of privilege to be bestowed on family, close friends and lovers. He had only ever since the Prince wearing a variety of plaits, the significance of the different patterns and designs lost on him, but he knew that they must mean something. 

“It is still very early,” Thorin said, watching with fascination as Legolas, after combing through his hair with his fingers, began to braid the silken strands, the Elf’s fingers moving deftly and surely with a swiftness that did not seem possible given how fine the plaits he was working on were. “I doubt dawn has even broken.” 

“That is good,” Legolas answered, continuing his task. “For I need to make an early start today.”

The Prince’s words were lost on Thorin, so focused was the Dwarf on the enigmatic braids and the Elf’s silken hair. “Does your hair not tangle after a night’s sleep like a normal person?” he questioned. 

“Rarely,” the Prince admitted without embarrassment. “Like a normal person?” he said after a moment’s thought. “Is untangled hair so strange?” 

“Everything about you is strange,” Thorin replied, but there was no derision in his voice. In fact, his statement carried with it a note of admiration.

The Elf began to laugh, finishing the second braid and somehow joining it to the first so that the two seamlessly intertwined at the center. Thorin had never seen anything like it. 

“What a chaste courtship this is,” the Prince murmured, now working on an even slimmer and finer side braid. “Few people have seen me plait my hair,” he explained softly. “Family, a handful of friends, my lovers,” the Elf went on, confirming what Thorin had already guessed. “Yet we have shared a bed together and naught has passed between us, not even a kiss.”

Only one word truly registered with Thorin during the Elf’s quiet explanation and he sat up, leaning against the headboard as he contemplated the word that had caught his attention. 

“Courtship? Is that what you’re doing? Courting me?”

The Prince wove the last of the side braid as he spoke. “I only realized it last night,” he admitted. “Once I accepted your invitation to stay. I had not been certain before. But last night I finally understood my actions for what they were and why your safety is so important to me.” He completed the braid and then looked back at Thorin. The Dwarf’s expression was serious and guarded. 

“I meant no offense,” Legolas said carefully. “If you do not feel the same way . . .” he trailed off. “I cherish your friendship for what it is,” he said, smiling kindly at Thorin. “I would ask for no more.” 

Thorin still did not respond and Legolas, now finished with his braids, slipped out of the bed. He could feel the Dwarf watching him as he began to dress. He had slept in a thin white tunic and a pair of leggings. Thorin kept silent and it was only when Legolas was strapping on his weapons again that the Dwarf finally spoke. 

“I do not know how I feel.”

Legolas glanced up. He could read the uncertainty in Thorin’s expression, the slight embarrassment at his admission, but there was also a determination there that gave Legolas hope. There was a chance – a very real one – that Thorin _could_ return his feelings. 

“I have no desire to put any pressure upon you,” Legolas said. “I merely wished to make my intentions clear. I have all the time in the world.”

Thorin translated the Elf’s last statement to mean, _I will wait_. It seemed impossibly romantic to him that an Elven Prince, no doubt coveted and desired by many, would wait . . . for _him_. 

“There are far more important things that need your attention right now,” Legolas was saying. He had finished dressing and stood tall and proud like the warrior Thorin knew him to be. 

The Dwarf also got out of bed, dressed only in the white tunic that he wore as an undershirt. He approached the Prince, stopping in front of him. “I do not have such time,” he told the Elf. “And this,” he said, grasping the Prince’s hand again. “In these perilous times, this may be the most important thing of all.”

Legolas tilted his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. For the first time, Thorin was truly irritated by the height difference between them. It made what he wanted to do next more . . . difficult. But Legolas, who from the start had been able to read him so well, far better than he could read the Elf in return, leaned down so that their noses almost grazed and all Thorin had to do was tilt his head a fraction so that their lips met. 

Thorin didn’t know what he’d been expecting from that kiss. Certainly, he’d never kissed a male before, much less an Elf. But Legolas’s lips were as soft as he’d imagined and the brush of lips against lips was as chaste as the rest of their ‘courtship,’ as the Elf had put it. Thorin was no blushing maiden and his pride demanded more from the Prince. He was reminded that Legolas was no maiden either when he stepped into the Prince’s space, his free hand wrapping around the Elf’s waist. The lean body beneath his hand was not the softness of a woman’s curves, but the strength of a warrior. Legolas adjusted, leaning into Thorin and drawing the Dwarf against him. Thorin felt the Elf’s hand at the back of his neck and then the kiss was deepening. _This_ is _different_ , Thorin thought as Legolas’s tongue swept against his, exploring Thorin’s mouth, gently but firmly. He knew without a doubt that the Elf was used to leading, just as he was, and that aspect might prove to make things more complicated in the future. But for now, Thorin was content to follow and when Legolas’s tongue retreated, it was Thorin’s turn to explore the Elf’s mouth, to remember his taste. Sweet, the Dwarf thought with a sigh. How else could it have been? 

The Elf’s smile was warm and a little bemused when the kiss ended. 

“Satisfactory?” Thorin asked him. 

Legolas’s smile grew. “Not so very chaste,” he teased in return.

“It is still early,” Thorin said again. “Perhaps I may tempt you to stay a while longer.” 

“What is your proposal?” the Elf queried, the teasing lilt still in his voice. 

“An offer of something that I know you could not find in Dale.” 

“There is much you could offer that I could not find in Dale.”

Now that both their intentions were clear, Thorin found it easy to slip into the Elf’s playful banter. In fact, he found it arousing especially when he could so readily see the predatory glint in the Prince’s eye. Yes, the Prince was used to getting his way. And why not? He had millennia of experience behind him. 

“I speak of something specific,” Thorin went on. “Something I think you would enjoy.” When Legolas indicated that Thorin should continue, the Dwarf said, “A warm bath.” 

“That is truly a temptation,” Legolas breathed.

“There is a natural, heated rock spring here in the mountain,” Thorin explained. He knew that his own smile had become predatory. 

“And here I thought I would have to seduce you,” Legolas said, his amusement returning. 

“Do you accept?”

The Elf shook his head. “Alas, I cannot,” he replied, sounding truly regretful. “I neglected to tell you last night why I have such an early start today. I must ride to Gundabad to spy on our enemy, to gather the information my father needs to be convinced of the threat.” 

Instantly, Thorin’s good humor vanished. “Your father would send you to Gundabad?” he said harshly. 

Legolas arched an imperious brow. “I am his best warrior,” he replied. “And he is not sending me anywhere. It was I who volunteered.”

Thorin released the Elf’s hand and stepped away from him. This news did not please him at all. While he saw the necessity of gathering information, why did the Prince have to journey to Gundabad? He wanted to keep Legolas close. Safe. Surely Thranduil had other spies to do his bidding. Did the King not value his own son’s life? 

Legolas was attuned to the swift change in Thorin’s demeanor. “Your concern is touching,” he said. “But we are both warriors, you and I. This is what we do in service to our people.”

Thorin exhaled loudly, knowing that the Prince was right. “You will not ride alone,” he said eventually. 

“No,” Legolas answered. “I will bring a small team with me.” He stepped towards the Dwarf again. “Do not think I have forgotten your proposal,” he whispered, voice low and filled with desire. “We shall make good use of your hot springs when I return.”

Thorin let the Elf’s words caress him, rich and soft like the finest velvet. He closed his eyes for a moment and held onto their promise. When he opened them again, his mind was clear, clearer than it had been since he had returned to Erebor. He felt like himself again. He reached out, running his hand down the side of Legolas’s face as the Elf had done to him the night before. He had the right to do this now, did he not? 

“Tell Bard to come see me this afternoon,” he told the Elf. “We can discuss the terms of the town’s settlement.” 

The Prince’s smile was radiant. “Very well,” he said. “I will inform him.” 

“The white gems of Lasgalen,” Thorin continued. 

Here the Elf silenced him with a finger on his lips. “The white gems can wait,” Legolas said. “Settle first with the people of Lake Town for they are sorely in need. The settlement will be a sign of your good will and it will indirectly appease my father.”

Thorin was perfectly willing to give the white gems of Lasgalen to Legolas at that very moment. “You do not want your father to have them,” he said wonderingly. 

Legolas shook his head. “I do, for long has he desired them,” the Prince answered. “But once those gems are in his possession, he will leave and we need the army here to defend Erebor when the time comes.” 

Thorin shook his head. “There is no guarantee that your father will defend Erebor,” he stated bluntly.

Legolas only smiled. “My father is capable of far greater compassion and kindness than he is often given credit for.” He placed his hand on Thorin’s nape again as he leaned in. “And I have great sway with him,” he whispered, words ghosting over Thorin’s lips. “ _I_ will defend Erebor.” 

“I do not deserve you,” Thorin said, very quietly. 

The Elf laughed, stealing a quick kiss. “No, you probably do not,” he agreed, his voice light to show that he was only jesting. “But I will make you earn it. Starting with that warm bath when I return.” He stepped back. 

Thorin looked deep in thought. “I will send a raven to my cousin, Dain, Lord of the Iron Hills,” he said eventually. “I will tell him that Erebor has been reclaimed and must be defended. Ironfoot are hardy warriors, the best among my kin. Dain can be here in a day’s march.” 

“Then do so,” Legolas agreed. “We need all the allies we can get.” Then the Elf’s look turned playful again. “Get dressed, King under the Mountain,” he said, teasing Thorin once more. “It is proper that you show your guest out.”

~*~*~*~*~

Once Thorin and Legolas entered the great hall, Dwalin was already there waiting to receive them. He barely gave the Elven Prince a nod, but immediately addressed his liege.

“Thorin, you must come see this,” Dwalin said. “The Elves are mobilizing on the plains in front of Erebor. They’re setting up a camp around the mountain, blocking off all entrances and passages.” 

“Your father does not waste any time,” Thorin commented, glancing at Legolas.

“He will not attack,” Legolas assured him. “Unless he is _provoked_.” 

The Elf fixed Thorin with a pointed look as he said the last word. Thorin merely sighed, choosing not to deign the Elf with a response. 

“In fact,” Legolas said. “He must be looking for me.” 

“There is an Elven Captain at the gate requesting to see you,” Dwalin said, addressing the Prince at last. 

“Tauriel?” 

“Not the She-Elf. I have not seen him before.” 

“Súlon then,” Legolas said almost to himself. He turned to Thorin. “I must go. Thank you, King under the Mountain, for your hospitality. It is most cherished. I hope to see you again soon.”

“You will always be welcome in these halls, Legolas of Mirkwood,” Thorin answered. “I bid you a swift and safe journey. I, too, hope that we will meet again soon.” 

“I shall take you up on your proposal when I return,” the Elf said lightly with a glint in his eye, though his manner remained formal and serious. 

“It is an open invitation,” Thorin answered, equally formally and seriously, but a smile was tugging at the corners of his lips. 

The Prince bowed once and then departed. Thorin and his lieutenant watched the Elf as he swiftly climbed the steps to the rampart. 

“Not a word,” Thorin warned his old friend when he was fairly certain that they were out of Legolas’s earshot.

“I haven’t said a thing,” Dwalin retorted. 

“Your disapproval is seeping through your pores,” Thorin commented. 

“At least you’re aware,” Dwalin muttered. 

“I think you’re upset because he used you as a stepping stone while the Orcs were chasing us on the Forest River,” Thorin said casually. 

“I will _never_ forgive him for that,” Dwalin growled. 

“Even if he did it to save our lives?” 

When Thorin’s question was met with a disgruntled sound, the King under the Mountain merely smiled.

~*~*~*~*~

On top of the rampart, Legolas met Bilbo again and the Prince got the distinct impression that the Hobbit had been waiting for him.

“Bilbo, are you well?” Legolas asked as the hobbit quickly walked toward him. Bilbo looked anything but well. In the first rays of the early morning light peeking behind the mountain, the hobbit looked agitated. 

“May I speak with you?” Bilbo said somewhat hurriedly when he was close enough. 

“Of course,” Legolas answered. 

“Not here,” Bilbo said, dropping his voice. “There’s something I have to show you.” 

“Where would you suggest?” 

Bilbo gazed at the gathering Elves on the battlefield. “How about your camp?” 

Legolas looked skeptical. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” 

Bilbo bristled. “I’m not a prisoner here,” he said. “And I don’t think Thorin will mind if I’m accompanied by you.” 

“What will you tell Thorin?” Legolas asked carefully.

Bilbo considered this, finally saying, “That I went with you to get some fresh supplies of food,” he answered. After a moment, he added, “Could I? Get some fresh supplies? We’ve had nothing but cram for days.” 

Legolas shook his head, but it was a sign of fondness not rejection. Before he could answer, Bilbo had gone to the Dwarf on watch (Bofur, Legolas thought his name was) to inform him of his plans. 

Bofur followed Bilbo back to where Legolas was waiting. “Are you sure this is allowed?” Bofur was saying, echoing Legolas’s own thoughts. “Shouldn’t you tell Thorin?”

“No need, no need,” Bilbo replied quickly. “Won’t be gone long. And didn’t you hear Thorin last night? Legolas is his friend. He’s not going to mind.” He paused. “You’re not going to mind either when I bring back some nice supplies for breakfast,” he added. 

“D’ye have any cheese?” Bofur asked the Prince, perking up at the thought of food other than cram. 

“I’m sure we can find something,” Legolas answered. 

“And how’re you going to bring all this food back?” Bofur wondered aloud. 

Before Bilbo could reply, Legolas said, “We’ll pack it in sacks and then you can hoist it up with a rope.”

He gestured for the hobbit to start the climb down from the rope that was now hanging off the west face of the rampart. Something about Bilbo’s manner was making him uneasy and he wanted to be off as soon as possible, so that Bilbo could return as soon as possible. Bilbo grasped the rope and climbed down much quicker than Legolas thought he would. At the bottom of the gate, standing beside the rope, Legolas saw Súlon and he waved to the Elven Captain, indicating that he was on his way down. Súlon waved back in acknowledgement, just as Bilbo reached the bottom. Then Legolas climbed down the rope himself, joining his two companions in a matter of moments. 

Bilbo and Súlon were not speaking, merely looking at each other curiously. 

“Bilbo,” Legolas said, beginning the introductions. “I’d like you to meet Súlon, one of the Captains in my father’s guard. Súlon, this is Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.” 

The two exchanged nods and then Súlon immediately addressed Legolas. 

“My Lord,” the Elven Captain said. “Your father sent me to find you.” 

“He seems to be doing that a lot of late,” Legolas commented, earning a quick smile from Súlon. Then the Prince grew more serious when he asked, “Did you tell him where I was?” 

Súlon’s manner grew serious as well and he shook his head. “I believe Lord Bard covered for you this morning,” he explained. “Your father does not know you are here.”

 _Yet_ , Legolas added to himself. “Súlon,” he said aloud, placing an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and leading the hobbit away. “I think you should be transferred into my service.” 

Súlon fell into step beside the Prince, guiding him in the direction of the royal tents that had been set up on the battlefield. “Truthfully, I would not mind,” he admitted. “But I think your father would simply send another guard to be your shadow.” 

Legolas laughed at the statement. “That is true,” he conceded. “So, you are journeying with me this morning?” 

“Of course, my Lord.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a 'down' chapter with more politicking, but things will pick up in the next bit.

When Legolas and his companions arrived in the newly erected royal tent on the battlefield where Thranduil would oversee the siege, they discovered that the tent was empty. One of the guards on duty informed the Prince that his father was already making the rounds and that Lord Bard had accompanied him. 

“He left word that you should see him before you depart this morning,” the guard said. 

“Very well,” Legolas replied. He entered the tent with Súlon and Bilbo following him. When he was certain that they were alone, he asked Súlon, “Have you seen Tauriel this morning?”

“She is with one of your companies on the eastern side of the mountain, directing the siege efforts there,” Súlon replied. 

“Find her,” Legolas instructed. “Inform her that she will be travelling with us to Gundabad and to prepare the horses and some supplies for the journey.” 

“Yes, my Lord. Is there anyone else I should inform?” 

“No, it will just be the three of us.” Legolas paused and glanced at the hobbit. “Afterwards, gather some food supplies to be packed in sacks. Take them only from the allotment for the companies under my command and some fresh fruits and vegetables from the stores meant for the people of Lake Town. We will take them to Erebor before we depart.” 

Bilbo was positively beaming at the Prince. 

“You are bringing food to the Dwarves against whom we are holding a siege?” Súlon said skeptically.

Even as the words left the Elven Captain’s lips, Súlon understood a fundamental difference between the King and his son. None would dare question Thranduil’s command, which could make the King unreasonable and unyielding at times, but the Prince was more understanding and approachable. Súlon knew that his question would not cause offense. 

“It is my hope that the siege will not last long,” Legolas answered. “And that war against the _hadhodrim_ will not come to pass. In the meantime, this ruse is necessary to protect my little friend here, who has something important to tell me.” 

At this, the two Elves looked at the Hobbit expectantly. 

“Here?” Bilbo said. 

“We are at the camp,” Legolas pointed out, reminding the Hobbit of his suggestion. “And we are quite alone and well protected. This is the opportune time.” 

Bilbo’s eyes darted from the Captain to the Prince and Legolas understood the Hobbit’s hesitation. 

“Súlon,” Legolas said, addressing the Captain again. “I require your discretion.” 

There was something in the Prince’s gaze that warned Súlon that if he chose to stay then the information that would be revealed to him might put him in a precarious position with the King. Súlon considered the request for only a moment. He held the Prince in the highest regard; he enjoyed Legolas’s company and his quick wit. He was the type of leader that Súlon would gladly follow, whose judgment he trusted and there were many who felt the same way about the Prince should Legolas ever take the throne. 

The Elven Captain bowed deferentially. “You have my discretion, my Lord,” he said.

Satisfied, Legolas turned back to the Hobbit. Bilbo also appeared placated by Súlon’s promise since he reached into the pocket of his now worn coat and pulled out an object carefully wrapped in a burgundy handkerchief. Legolas immediately recognized the material and color of the handkerchief as belonging to the house of Lord Elrond. Slowly, Bilbo unwrapped the object until he presented it to the two Elves who gazed at it in quiet awe. 

“ _I hûn-en-orod_ ,” Súlon breathed. He had never seen the Arkenstone before, but he recognized it at once. There was no other jewel like it, and indeed the tales of starlight being caught in its form were perfectly true. The King’s jewel gleamed and dazzled in the confines of the tent. 

Legolas, on the other hand, had seen the jewel before. He knew it belonged in the great column that rose above the King’s throne in Erebor. He understood its power. The Arkenstone bestowed the one who possessed it the right to rule. It was the summit of Erebor’s great wealth. It was the symbol that would unite the seven dwarf kingdoms once more. 

“How did you come upon this?” Legolas asked. 

Bilbo shrugged almost helplessly. “I found it,” he said. “I’m a burglar, remember? This is what Thorin contracted me to do – to steal the Arkenstone from Smaug. And so I did.” 

Legolas’s admiration for the hobbit grew with every moment he spent with the Halfling. Beside him, Súlon’s face broke into an amused smile. 

“You stole this from the dragon?” the Captain asked, a touch of awe in his voice. 

Bilbo’s face remained serious. “It was no easy task,” he replied. 

“Why have you brought it here?” Legolas questioned. “This is the symbol of Thorin’s house. It is the King’s jewel and it belongs with the King.”

“Legolas,” Bilbo said in a pleading tone. “You don’t know what it’s been like with him. Many times, many times I have wanted to give it to him, but Balin says that it won’t stay his madness. He fears it will make it worse. And Smaug? He told me that he was tempted to let me take the Arkenstone, if only to watch Thorin suffer, to watch it destroy him and corrupt his heart and drive him mad.” The Hobbit was close to tears as he said this and Legolas put a gentle hand on his shoulder to calm him. “Smaug was right,” Bilbo said. “The Arkenstone will destroy him.” 

“Thorin was much better this morning,” the Prince said. “I would go so far as to say that he was himself again. He even asked me to speak to Bard about the settlement with Lake Town. Such an act of goodwill will go a long way to preventing war.” 

Bilbo still looked deeply troubled as he considered this. Eventually, he offered the Arkenstone to the Prince. “Will you take it?” he asked. 

Legolas hesitated before he reached out, but instead of taking the stone as the Hobbit expected, the Prince wrapped the fair jewel in the handkerchief once more and held the Hobbit’s hands. 

“The Arkenstone belongs with the line of Durin,” he said.

“Even if it will lead to Thorin’s destruction?” Bilbo said in despair. 

“I do not believe that will happen,” Legolas answered with a shake of his head. “You must have greater faith in him, Master Baggins.” 

Bilbo sighed heavily. 

Legolas went down on one knee so that he was eye-level with the Halfling. “Keep this,” he instructed. “I understand what you are attempting to do by offering this to me, but perhaps it will not come to that. The Arkenstone is a contingency. If Thorin’s condition worsens and war between the Dwarves and my father and the men of Lake Town truly looks inevitable, then seek out Bard or Gandalf. Give the Arkenstone to them, for it is likely that I will not be here.” 

“Where are you going?” Bilbo asked in mild alarm. 

“To Gundabad,” Legolas answered. “But do not trouble yourself with that. The Arkenstone,” he said, returning to the subject. “It will be the last effort to prevent war. Do you agree?”

Bilbo looked into the Prince’s eyes, amazed that he had come to trust the Elf so much after such a short period of time. But trust the Prince he did. “Very well,” he said heavily, tucking the Arkenstone back into his coat pocket. “There’s no guarantee,” he grumbled quietly. “That I’ll be able to sneak out of Erebor again.” 

Legolas smiled as he stood up, squeezing the Hobbit’s shoulder affectionately. “You are a most resourceful hobbit, Bilbo Baggins,” he said. “I have faith that you will find a way.” 

Bilbo couldn’t help but grin at the Prince’s assessment, feeling a certain pride to have Legolas’s faith and approval. Gandalf was right. He was not the same Hobbit that had left the Shire and he was better for it.

“Go with Súlon,” Legolas said. “He will help you with the supplies you’ll be bringing back to Erebor. I must seek out my father and Bard.” The Prince turned to the Captain again. “When all is prepared, I will meet you and Tauriel on the western side of the camp,” he told Súlon. “After bringing Bilbo back to Erebor, we will ride north.” 

Súlon nodded, motioning for the Hobbit to follow him. With one last look at the Prince, Bilbo nodded and the two of them exited the royal tent.

~*~*~*~*~

Once outside, it was not Thranduil or Bard that Legolas first encountered on the battlefield but Mithrandir.

“Ah, Legolas,” the grey wizard said. “Just the Elf I was looking for.” 

“I am on my way to see my father and Bard,” Legolas greeted the wizard. “Will you join me?” 

“Come with me first,” Gandalf replied. “Your father and Bard are quite occupied for the time being and there is something I want to show you.”

Legolas arched a golden brow at the wizard’s enigmatic statement. It seemed that showing him ‘things’ had become the theme of the morning and Anor was not yet full in the sky. He obligingly followed the wizard, wondering if Gandalf’s news would be half as unexpected as Bilbo’s and the Arkenstone. 

“How did your meeting with Thorin go last night?” the wizard asked conversationally as they walked.

“Very well,” Legolas answered. “You were right to be concerned about the effects of the dragon sickness. I saw them in him myself – the quick swings of mood, the anger and distrust. But he was able to overcome it. He was much better this morning, so much so that he has requested an audience with Bard to settle his debt with the town.”

Gandalf stopped walking suddenly, making Legolas stop as well. “That is welcome news indeed,” the wizard said. Then his look turned knowing as he gave the Prince a sly smile. “His feelings for you must run deep if you were able to sway him in that direction.” 

Legolas was startled by the comment. “I did not say that!” he quickly objected. 

“You did not have to,” the wizard answered with a twinkle in his eye. “I understand well what draws Thorin Oakenshield to you. Come,” he said, resuming their walk in a brisk manner. His step seemed livelier as though Legolas’s news had given him a burst of energy.

Gandalf led the Prince to the outskirts of the Elvenking’s camp, turning in the direction of Dale but avoiding the road that led into the city. Instead, he made his way to one side of the city, further piquing the Prince’s interest as he followed the wizard. At last, they stopped on a small outcropping, out of view of the Elven camp and beneath the eaves of Dale. It was a virtual blind spot. 

Legolas did not know what to expect next, but he was not very surprised when the wizard called softly into the wind, swirling his staff so that Legolas could see the faint pulsating glow of the spell being carried off to whomever was meant to receive it. The answer was soon apparent as Legolas heard a keen cry in response and then a magnificent eagle swooped down from the sky and landed before them. It bowed slightly and then held itself upright and proud, its sharp eyes appraising the wizard and the Elf. 

Gandalf stepped forward. “Legolas, I wish you to meet Landroval, brother of Gwaihir, Lord of the Eagles,” he said.

“A Prince among his race,” Legolas said, placing his hand to his chest and then saluting the eagle lord. The eagle crested his wings once, apparently pleased by the Elf’s response. 

“It was Gwaihir and his brethren who helped our company escape when we were besieged outside the Misty Mountains,” Gandalf explained.

“Yes, Thorin told me the tale,” Legolas said. “The eagles bore you to Carrock and from there the company continued the quest.” 

“Since that time Gwaihir has kept a close watch on the goings-on in the Misty Mountains,” the wizard continued. “The eagles have seen leagues of Moria orcs march out to the Dol Guldur, but from that fell fortress they have been unable to follow their path. It is most strange, Legolas, that we have lost sight of them.” Gandalf paused, his brow furrowing in consternation. “Gwaihir sent his brother here to tell of their findings and I, in turn, have told Landroval of your impending journey to Gundabad. He offers you his services. Time, as you well know, is a luxury that we do not possess. Landroval will take you to Gundabad and wait for you there.”

Legolas turned to the mighty eagle. “I thank you for your generous offer,” he said. “Long have the great eagles been allied with my kin, since the time of the hidden city of Gondolin, which your forbear Thorondor protected in alliance with Turgon. You honor us by coming to our aid now.”

Though not all of the eagles possessed the ability to speak in the tongue of Westron, Gwaihir and his brother, being most closely descended from Thorondor, possessed this gift. 

“It is an honor to bear you northward, Legolas, son of Thranduil,” Landroval answered. “How many of your companions will be joining us?” 

“Two others will journey with me,” the Prince answered. “Both fine warriors. There are some matters I must attend to before we leave, but they will not take long. How may I reach you?” 

“Gandalf will teach you,” Landroval answered. “I await your call,” he said. After saying this, the magnificent eagle took to the skies again.

~*~*~*~*~

Thranduil and Bard had already returned to the royal tent when Legolas and Gandalf entered. The Elvenking and the Lord of Men were breakfasting at the large table, which would soon be covered with maps, scrolls and other means of strategizing.

“Legolas,” Thranduil said, motioning for his son to join them. Immediately, two servers had come forward to set two additional places at the long table for the Prince and the wizard. “I was starting to think that you had left without informing me.” The note of chastisement was unmistakable in the King’s voice. 

“Father, you know I would never do such a thing,” Legolas replied, taking his seat on the King’s right side opposite Bard. Beside the Prince, Gandalf also sat down in front of a newly set place. 

Bard caught Legolas’s eye for a moment, silently informing the Prince that his secret was still safe. Privately, Bard continued to be amazed at the relationship between the Elvenking and his son. Thranduil’s reputation for being as cold as ice and immovable as a mountain was well deserved. Yet there had been something gently reprimanding in Legolas’s tone when he’d answered his father’s query. The Prince, Bard understood, had been teasing and he marveled at the subtle but deep affection between the king and his son. Few were privy to it, but Bard knew that no one could bring down Thranduil’s defenses like Legolas. 

“Forgive me, Thranduil,” Gandalf interrupted. “It was I who waylaid your son this morning.” 

Thranduil inclined his head in acknowledgement. The Elvenking seemed to be in a good mood and the wizard’s tiresome meddling did not bother him as much as usual. 

“I was waylaid for good reason,” Legolas smoothly said. “Gandalf brings more tidings, this time courtesy of the great eagles of the Misty Mountains.”

Gandalf proceeded to tell the group of the news brought by Landroval. He concluded with a pointed look at the Elvenking. “Is that not adequate proof that war is coming to Erebor?” he asked. 

Thranduil’s look was cold, his smile as sharp as an Elven blade when he replied. “It is proof that Orcs are on the move from the Misty Mountains,” he answered. “But I did not think Orcs clever enough to keep out of the sight of the Istari as well as the keen-sighted _therein_.” 

“It is a most troubling development,” Gandalf returned. “That we have lost sight of the enemy.” 

“It is a puzzle that we will solve,” Legolas intervened before the tension between his father and the wizard could escalate. “Landroval has offered to take me to Gundabad.” 

Thranduil’s attention snapped back to his son and the tension in his face eased. “A generous offer,” the King said approvingly. 

“And well received,” Legolas answered. “We leave as soon as I am done here.” 

“Eat then,” Thranduil said, gesturing to Legolas’s untouched plate. “I doubt the fare at Gundabad will be to your liking.” 

Legolas gave his father a quick smile before taking his advice and helping himself to some fruit, bread and jam. “There is more,” the Prince continued. “We have received word from Erebor. Thorin requests that Bard see him this afternoon to discuss the settlement of the town.”

This news was so surprising that Bard and Thranduil stopped their motions mid-action, with Thranduil about to eat a piece of melon speared at the end of his fork, his mouth comically open in a most unkingly fashion; while Bard actually dropped his knife, his quick reflexes the only thing preventing the knife from clattering onto his plate. 

“It is welcome news, is it not?” Legolas questioned innocently when Bard and Thranduil did not respond. 

The Elvenking finally ate the piece of melon, chewing thoughtfully as he considered this. Bard looked from father to son. 

“Very welcome,” Bard agreed at last. “Unexpected, but most welcome. Perhaps war will be avoided after all.”

“The Dwarf gave no word on the white gems of Lasgalen?” Thranduil said. 

To Bard’s eyes, Legolas’s smile was disturbingly knowing. He wondered if the King read it differently.

“Please, Father,” the Prince said. “Thorin is a dwarf and the enmity between our peoples is long. He cannot help but make us wait. But the settlement with the people of Lake Town is a good sign. It appears that Thorin is more reasonable than his grandfather and true to his word.” 

The look Thranduil gave his son was long and hard. Some unspoken communication seemed to pass between them. When the King spoke again, it was in Elvish, the words falling quickly from his lips. Bard could not understand their meaning, but they sounded beautiful and melodious to him. He could not tell from the King’s expression whether he was angry or displeased. Thranduil had never looked more like an ageless, unfathomable, perfect being to him. Legolas’s response was just as swift, just as melodious. Bard was struck in that moment at how alike father and son were, how regal their bearing, how strong their wills, how without peer was their beauty. Truly, Legolas was his father’s son. 

When Bard hazarded a look at the wizard, he saw that Gandalf was eating with his head bowed. Although Bard had been excluded from the conversation, he knew that the wizard was well versed in many languages and could no doubt follow the two Elves’ discussion, whether it was meant for him or not. To Bard’s surprise, it was Thranduil who broke the Elvish ‘stand-off’ with a musical laugh. Bard had never heard the Elvenking laugh before and he was genuinely shocked, more so because the laugh reminded him of Legolas’s laugh, only slightly deeper in tone. 

“To think,” Thranduil said, greatly amused as he lifted his goblet. “That I would live long enough to witness that.” 

Legolas did not share in the joke. “But if it comes to that?” the Prince persisted, as though he had been arguing some point.

Thranduil looked at his son indulgently. “Let the Dwarf settle first with the people of Lake Town and then we shall see,” he said. 

“Father,” Legolas said, a note of warning in his voice. 

From anyone else, Bard was certain that Thranduil might have flown into a rage, but the Elvenking merely smiled, still amused. “Do you not trust me to do what is best for our people?” he asked, his tone light but all present could hear the gravity underpinning the question.

Bard could see the moment that Legolas backed down. “You have always had the best interest of our people at heart,” the Prince said sincerely. 

“Then let the Dwarf settle first with the people of Lake Town,” Thranduil repeated. “And then we shall see.” 

The statement put an end to their discussion and the meal resumed peaceably.

~*~*~*~*~

Legolas had awoken so early and Thranduil had mobilized the Elven army at dawn that by the time the morning meal had ended, it was not even eight o’clock. The Prince took his leave of his father, the wizard and Bard, making his way to the rendezvous point that he had given Súlon on the outskirts of the Western side of the camp. There he found Súlon, Tauriel and Bilbo waiting with several sacks of supplies to be brought to Erebor.

“My apologies, Tauriel,” Legolas greeted his old friend. “It turns out we will not be riding to Gundabad at all.”

Tauriel did not look impressed. “If you mean that the trip has been cancelled, then I am not too sorry,” she replied. “Otherwise it will be a very long walk.” 

“No, the trip has not been cancelled,” Legolas replied mysteriously. Then he turned in the direction of the open plain on his left and cast the same spell that Gandalf had used earlier. It was Landroval’s distinct call and the spell reached the eagle, though he was but a small figure in the sky. The eagle swooped down and landed with two of his companions, the three of them bowing before the Elven Prince.

“We will be flying,” Legolas informed his two friends with a smile. “Súlon, Tauriel, this is Landroval, brother of Gwaihir, Lord of the Eagles.” Then he glanced at Landroval. “You might remember Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,” he told the eagle. 

The eagle nodded. “I remember him well,” he answered. “Very courageous, this little Hobbit. These are my companions, Menelcar and Meneldor. They were the nearest of my kin on patrol and I have asked them to join us. They do not speak Westron, but they understand it well enough.” 

“We are thankful for your assistance, Landroval,” Legolas answered.

Tauriel released the horses, instructing them to return to the camp and then the three Elves leaped nimbly onto the backs of the giant eagles. Legolas assisted Bilbo to climb onto the back of Landroval, and then they were in the air, the eagles swooping down to pick up the sacks of food with their claws. 

Bilbo clutched the feathers in front of him, hoping that he was not holding on too tightly to hurt Landroval. “Flying does not agree with me,” the Hobbit said. 

Legolas wrapped an arm around the Hobbit’s waist to hold him more securely. “It is a short trip for you,” he said encouragingly. 

Bilbo relaxed against the Elf. “Thank goodness,” he replied.

It was a very short trip indeed for in a matter of moments they had reached the great gates of Erebor. Menelcar and Meneldor swooped down, dropping their packages on the ramparts of the Dwarf city. It was only Landroval who landed, his wing span so wide that it encompassed two thirds of Erebor’s massive gate. Bofur, who was still on watch, ducked when the eagle landed but he quickly regained his footing when he saw that it was the Prince and Bilbo. The commotion had brought out other members of the company who could see the goings-on from the floor of the entrance hall. Thorin was among them. 

With the help of Legolas, Bilbo slid off Landroval’s large back and landed gently on the rampart. The Hobbit looked very relieved to be standing on solid ground again no matter how short the flight. 

“Remember my words, Master Baggins,” the Elf said. 

Bilbo nodded. “Have a swift and safe trip!” he called back. “Try not to run into any Orcs!”

The Prince laughed. “I shall do my best,” he answered.

With one final glance at Thorin who was watching him from below, Legolas gave the command for Landroval to take off and then there was nothing but the clear blue sky in front of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin Translations: 
> 
> 1\. hadhodrim - Dwarves, as a race  
> 2\. I hûn-en-orod. - The heart of the mountain.  
> 3\. therein - eagles


	13. Chapter 13

It was shortly after lunch when Bard arrived at the gates of Erebor and he immediately noticed a ladder made of rope now dangling on the Western side of the gate. When Bard looked up he saw Thorin’s lieutenant, the large and rather forbidding dwarf, Dwalin standing with his arms crossed in front of chest beside the ladder. There was another dwarf walking across the rampart that Bard assumed to be the one on guard duty. Dwalin, on the other hand, looked like he’d been waiting specifically for Bard to arrive. He motioned for Bard to climb the ladder and so Bard did. When the bowman climbed over the rampart, the look he was met with was severe but Dwalin still bowed respectfully. 

“Thorin is waiting for you,” he said. “Follow me.”

It was the first time Bard had been in Erebor and though the great entrance hall had been destroyed by the fight with Smaug and all around lay the ruin from that encounter, as well as when the dragon had first driven the dwarves out of Erebor, there was no mistaking the grandeur and majesty of the Dwarf city. Already, Thorin’s small company had begun the task of rebuilding and reconstructing (not to mention fortifying) their homeland. 

Bard followed Dwalin deeper into the city, along many passages and stairways lit by torches where the natural light from the outside did not filter into the mountain. At length, they came to a long, straight pathway that led to the throne room of Erebor. Bard walked down the path, aware that many had come before him to pay their respects to the King under the Mountain. But Thorin was not sitting in the throne. He was standing, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked at a ruined column directly behind the throne, his gaze fixed on a peculiar hole in the column. By the shape and size of the hole, as well as the surrounding fine metalwork of embroidery, Bard could guess what had once been there. 

_They have not yet found it_ , the Bowman thought. It did not matter to him. His people would recognize Thorin as the rightful ruler of Erebor whether or not the Arkenstone was recovered.

Thorin turned around at the sound of Dwalin and Bard’s approach. On his right stood the old dwarf, Balin, his most trusted advisor and on the other side of the throne stood the Hobbit that Bard remembered, Bilbo Baggins, that courageous little Halfling who had given his word when none other would stand for Thorin in front of the town. 

Dwalin nodded once at Thorin before taking his position at the side of the throne, standing next to Bilbo and then Bard was standing alone in front of the King. Thorin’s gaze was sharp and piercing; there was a calculation in his look that the Bowman did not remember. He understood then that this offer of settlement would not be a mere formality as he’d hoped. His thoughts drifted to Legolas. It was at times like these that Bard wished that he had his Elven friend’s poise, his skill with diplomacy, his experience with negotiations and simply his presence. Legolas held Thorin’s favor and not for the first time did Bard wonder how the Prince had swayed Thorin towards the idea of settlement. At any rate, if Legolas had been with them now, Bard had no doubt that the Prince would have been able to ease an otherwise difficult situation. 

“My Lord Thorin,” Bard said with a low bow. “I come at your request.” 

Thorin inclined his head in acknowledgement, similar to how he had acknowledged Bard’s request to seek the terms at the gate of Erebor just the day before. Bard couldn’t help but marvel at how much had transpired since then. 

But after this formality, no one spoke. Thorin did not take his seat at the throne. Instead, he remained standing, hands still clasped behind his back. He cut an imposing figure on the elevated dais of the throne as he looked down at Bard imperiously.

 _He is every bit the King of his blood_ , the Bowman thought. _Just as Thranduil effortlessly wields his power from his woodland throne of antler horn._

Bard knew it was not his place to speak and so he waited patiently, enduring the silence heavy with meaning and the scorching gaze of the Dwarf Lord. 

At length, Thorin said, “How you have risen, Bard of Lake Town. Or is it now Dale? When we first met on the Forest River you were but a simple bargeman. A _smuggler_ ,” he added, with emphasis. “Now you are a great dragon slayer whose name shall live throughout the ages to be immortalized in songs and tales. You have fulfilled a destiny that your ancestor laid upon you long ago and restored honor to your family’s name. From the ashes, you have become a Lord of Men.” 

Bard was speechless. Of all the ways Thorin could have begun their negotiation, praising his achievements and honoring his family name, had not for one moment occurred to him. But rather than lowering his defenses, the unexpected praise made Bard more wary. There was something unsettling in Thorin’s tone; some kind of insinuation lay beneath his words that Bard could not quite place. 

“You do me great honor, my Lord,” Bard answered sedately. “But all I did was for my family. All my actions were borne out of necessity, not for fame or wealth.” 

“And yet fame you have,” Thorin continued smoothly. “And wealth you seek.” 

Bard held back a cutting response. The wealth he sought was not for his personal gain but for the good of the town, and it offended him that Thorin should insinuate otherwise. The Dwarf did not seem to be himself. Before Bard could think of a more suitable reply, Thorin was speaking once more. 

“Your people have much to be thankful for,” he said. “They have survived dragon fire. There are not many who live to tell the tale.” 

Bard quickly tried to think of a diplomatic response, even though ‘thankful’ was hardly the word he would use to describe his people’s plight. “We are thankful, yes,” he agreed carefully. “But we have also been laid low by the destruction of the town and by the Master of the Town in whom we put our trust. At the first sign of Smaug’s approach, the Master took all the gold of the town and placed it into his boat and fled the city. We have not seen him since.” 

“That is why you are here,” Thorin concluded. “Tell me, what will you do with the gold from Erebor?” 

Bard was perplexed by the question. “We will rebuild our lives,” he said simply. 

“And this new life,” Thorin continued. “Will it be built on top of the ashes of the old town or will you build it upon the foundations of Dale?” 

“That is still to be decided,” Bard admitted. “I would hear the thoughts of the people on the matter before arriving at a decision.” 

Thorin smiled, but there was little warmth in it. “If you could choose for them,” he prodded. “What would you decide?” 

Bard considered his answer for a moment, never once flinching from Thorin’s probing gaze. “I would choose Dale,” he answered. “Its foundations _are_ strong and the city was once prosperous. I would restore its former glory and bestow that happiness and joy to my people if I could.”

“Prosperous,” Thorin repeated. He slowly walked towards the throne, placing one hand on a stone armrest. “Dale’s prosperity stemmed from its strategic location, from its proximity to Erebor and its trade with my people.” 

Bard nodded. “That is true, my Lord.” 

Thorin’s gaze was sharp. “Would you resume that trade with us?” he asked. “Would you take up old alliances?” 

“If such an alliance and trade is to our mutual benefit,” Bard replied. “I do not see why it should not be so.” 

“And what of your alliance with the Elves?” 

Bard felt his skin grow cold. He could see now how clever Thorin was being, how he had manipulated their conversation to this point.

“What of it?” Bard asked, a little stiffly. He was not willing to concede anything to the King under the Mountain. At least, not yet. 

“Will you retain that alliance as well?” Thorin asked directly. 

“My people have traded with the Elves for many generations,” Bard answered somewhat boldly. “The Elvenking is our friend and he has aided us in our time of need.” 

At this Thorin laughed, the sound hearty and loud as it echoed in the vast hall. “Thranduil?” he said mockingly. “Your friend? As if that Elf Lord is capable of such a thing.” 

Bard remained silent. He would not force the issue. He knew well the enmity between Thorin and the Elvenking. 

“You disagree?” Thorin taunted. 

“I can only say,” Bard replied after a long moment. “That my experience with him has been different from yours.” 

Thorin’s smile turned into a sneer. “Aye,” he agreed. “Men and Elves have ever allied themselves against us. This time is no different.” 

“That is not true,” Bard protested instantly. “Legolas is not like his father, not in this instance.” 

Bard knew the minute Legolas’s name had fallen from his lips that he had made a mistake. Thorin’s eyes flashed with a dark, knowing glint. 

“And what do you know of the Woodland Prince?” Thorin asked, his voice now baiting Bard. “Is he your friend too?” 

Against his better judgment Bard replied, “I know him better than I know his father and our friendship is old.” 

“And how is it that you, a simple barge man, came to be friends with an Elven Prince?” 

Bard could practically see the grave he was digging for himself. Thorin’s voice had grown cold, his expression hard. There was something in his body language that spoke of possessiveness and . . . 

_He is jealous_ , Bard realized with surprise. _He is jealous that I have known Legolas longer than him, that I perhaps know Legolas_ better _than him_.

“As all such friendships come to be,” Bard said, his tone deferential. “It was an accident.” 

“Tell me the tale.” 

Bard thought it was a terrible idea, but Thorin was finally sitting in the throne waiting expectantly. He cast a look about at Thorin’s silent companions. Dwalin’s expression was as imperturbable as ever, Balin’s brow was furrowed and Bilbo . . . well, ‘anxious’ was the only word Bard could think of when he saw the Hobbit’s face. Bard shared Bilbo’s concern. 

“It is an unremarkable story,” Bard said at last.

“Somehow I doubt that,” Thorin retorted. “Come,” he encouraged coldly. “Is it not custom among your people to share stories as a sign of friendship and goodwill? This is a negotiation. We must build our goodwill. We must come to know each other better to understand what sort of bargain should be struck.” 

Bard did not think his friendship with Legolas had much to do with their ‘negotiation’ (or rather, it had _everything_ to do with their negotiation) but he also understood that he had very little say in the matter. Thorin held all the power in Erebor. Once more he found himself wishing that the Prince were by his side. How differently things might have gone. 

“I was just a boy when I first met the Prince,” Bard began reluctantly. “One of my father’s workers was sick that day and my father needed the extra help with a large order of Dorwinion wine for one of the King’s feasts, so I accompanied him to Mirkwood. I wasn’t very strong yet, but I had a good sense of sailing and I knew the river currents well thanks to my father’s tutelage. So I was in charge of one of the boats that went down the river to the Elvenking’s halls. When we arrived, I helped with the unpacking as much as I could, but in the end I was too much of a bother and was allowed to go exploring in the surrounding woods near the river gate. The Elves said it was safe enough and that their borders were well protected. I had heard terrible stories about Mirkwood, about the evil that lurked under its dark boughs, and how none ventured into the woods for fear of being lost or falling under the spell of one of the Elves’ enchantments. 

“But the woods surrounding Thranduil’s palace are nothing like that. The Elves love their great forest and I can only imagine the majesty that Greenwood must have been before evil began to overrun their land. I wandered around until I came to a small grove where I first saw the Prince. He was by himself with his bow and arrow, shooting at some targets. I was . . .” 

Bard was at a loss for words. He remembered that moment so clearly, although it had been long ago. None of the potency of that memory had faded with time, but instead seemed to grow in luminosity. He had been enthralled by Legolas, utterly spellbound by the Prince. He had not thought such perfect beauty, grace and deadly skill could be found in a single being. But the Prince was all these things and so much more, for when Legolas first spoke to him and inquired if he were lost, Bard could not find his voice to answer the Elf. He’d been stunned into silence. 

“You fell in love,” Thorin supplied. 

“I did,” Bard said unthinkingly. Then he glanced at the King, worried that he’d revealed too much and so he quickly added, “I was but a youth. I did not understand my own heart nor the ways of the world. My son, Bain, looks now on Legolas with that same kind of wonder and awe. It is a phase that will pass, though I know not how long it will last.” 

“Did it pass for you?”

Bard’s voice was caught in his throat. He found that he could not lie to Thorin and certainly not about Legolas, even though telling the truth would probably be detrimental to their ‘negotiations.’ 

“It did not.” 

Thorin settled back in his throne, his expression thoughtful but also subdued. “What happened then?” he asked.

“We spoke. I asked to see his bow. He showed it to me. I had never used a bow before, but the craft of that weapon was undeniable. Mirkwood is home to some of the finest archers in Middle-earth, even among their own kind.” Bard cleared his throat, aware of his own digression. “With some instruction from the Prince I attempted to use his bow, although it was too unwieldy for me since I was not as tall or as strong as the Prince. But Legolas noted that I possessed some natural skill and he offered to teach me. I was so excited that I accepted, even without my father’s consent. I didn’t know he was the Prince. I only discovered that later when he escorted me back to the river gate and the other Elves immediately bowed in his presence. He spoke to my father who was deeply embarrassed at my behavior, but Legolas would have none of it. He told my father that he would instruct me in archery and my father was too stunned to refuse. After that day, I journeyed with him during his weekly trips to Mirkwood where I would meet the Prince for archery lessons and that is how our friendship grew.” 

Bard stopped speaking and the look he gave Thorin implied that there was nothing more to say, but Thorin would have none of it. 

“That is not the end of your story,” the King replied. 

Bard almost arched an eyebrow, a habit that he had often seen Legolas perform. “How would you know that?” he asked, once more against his better judgment.

“Because you admitted that you fell in love with the Prince, even though you were just a lad but that feeling never left you. It means that you love him still and what I wish to know,” Thorin said, drawing his words out. “What I wish to know is if he ever returned your feelings.” 

Bard could feel his cheeks growing warm. What right did this Dwarf have to ask such personal questions, to bare his personal life in front of strangers for his own amusement? Was this kingly behavior? 

“I fail to see how any of this is relevant to the matter at hand,” Bard said, his tone neutral although his words were defiant. 

“It has _everything_ to do with the matter at hand,” Thorin shot back, his composure briefly cracking. “Did he return your feelings?”

Incensed, Bard replied without thinking, “Not right away, but yes. After some years had passed and I had grown into a man, he did return my feelings.” 

Thorin’s look was triumphant as though Bard’s answer had vindicated him in some way, but Bard could see that there was darkness there too, a kind of hollowness in Thorin’s eyes that made Bard uneasy. Glancing at Bilbo, the Hobbit looked even more distressed, his eyes silently pleading with Bard to find a way to end this line of talk. 

“What then?” Thorin’s voice was dark and menacing. Even Dwalin glanced at his liege, though he did not betray any surprise in his expression. 

“What do you mean?” Bard asked helplessly. 

“What then?” Thorin repeated, enunciating each word slowly. He was leaning forward in the throne, his hands gripping the stone armrests tightly as though his life depended on Bard’s answer. “Did you maintain a secret relationship? Did Thranduil find out? Did he approve? Did he force you apart?” Thorin looked like he hungered for the knowledge. 

_It is another type of greed_ , Bard realized. Dragon sickness was sometimes called gold sickness but both those terms did not take into account other things that were equally precious to the one suffering from the illness. The Arkenstone, for one. Legolas was yet another example. The Elven Prince was no mere possession that Thorin could keep in his hoard, but the Dwarf Lord was clearly unable to tell the difference at this moment. His love for Legolas had become corrupted, had become fierce and possessive, which was the only type of love that dragon sickness could inflict. Now the King under the Mountain was hungry for knowledge, for the stories of Bard’s exploits with the Elf that he could partake in even as they were a reminder of something that he did not yet quite possess, something that he desired greatly – proof of the Elven Prince’s love.

“Answer me!” Thorin bellowed when Bard did not respond. 

“No,” Bard said quietly. 

Thorin jumped out of the throne enraged. “You dare refuse?” he thundered. He stalked towards Bard, who held his ground despite the fury radiating off the King.

 _He could cut off my head in this rage_ , Bard thought. 

Thorin was completely blinded by anger and jealousy. The change had been so swift and so complete that Bard hardly recognized him. 

“You dare refuse me?” Thorin repeated when he was standing in front of the bowman. 

Bard held his head high. “My personal life is not your concern,” he said.

~*~*~*~*~

In the Elvenking’s tent, Thranduil sat in an elegant chair of carven oak, one leg crossed over the other, a goblet of wine carelessly held in one hand as the King laughed and laughed.

Bard could not share in his amusement. 

“What happened then?” Thranduil asked when he finally caught his breath. His smile was radiant, his eyes shining with mirth. 

_So much like Legolas_ , Bard couldn’t help but think. Except that the King rarely laughed this way, and Legolas laughed all the time, albeit among his close friends.

“What do you think happened?” Bard replied in exasperation. 

The day had begun so promisingly for the Bowman, but then it had gone steadily downhill and he had lost patience with all social niceties. Dealing with Kings could be so trying whether they were Dwarf Lords or Elf Lords. Worse, there would be no Legolas with whom to commiserate later than night, even though the Elven Prince had been the source of all his troubles during the day. 

“I would not miss the pleasure of hearing you say it,” Thranduil prodded, his smile growing wicked. 

“He threw me out!” Bard exclaimed. “He drew his sword and we probably would have been locked in a duel if it hadn’t been for the intervention of his advisors, Balin and Dwalin. At least they saw some sense in keeping me alive.” 

“And the hobbit?” Thranduil inquired, surprising Bard with the question.

“Bilbo,” Bard supplied. “The hobbit escorted me out. Practically pushed me out the gates for my own safety.” 

“I heard you did not have a very soft landing,” Thranduil said, trying – and failing – to keep his amusement in check. 

“You were spying on me then?” 

“Elves have very keen eyes.” 

Bard resisted the urge to roll _his_ eyes, looking at the ground instead. 

“I suppose that settles it,” Thranduil said after a moment, standing up gracefully. He went to the table to pour himself some more wine. 

“Settles what?” 

“That we are going to war after all.”

“War?” Bard repeated in shock. “What happened to the siege?” 

“Legolas said the siege was a short-term measure,” Thranduil reminded him. “Since negotiations have plainly fallen apart, it is time to act.” 

“My Lord,” Bard said. “It has only been a day. Please,” he pleaded. “Let us wait for your son to return from Gundabad. Was that not the purpose behind the siege? So that we may gather information on the Enemy’s whereabouts and intentions?”

“That was Legolas and Gandalf’s intention behind the siege,” the Elvenking corrected. “I merely acquiesced. But I too have my spies and they have informed me that Ironfoot are on their way to the Mountain and will be here in less than a day. If we do not act soon, we will lose all advantage.” He paused, passing Bard a goblet of wine. “Do you agree?” 

Bard accepted the goblet but did not drink from it. “I support your son in this,” he admitted. “I would wait to hear what news he brings from Gundabad. It would be foolish to expend our energy on the wrong foe.”

Thranduil looked at Bard, his gaze suddenly piercing. It was difficult for Bard not to flinch under that knowing look when Thranduil brought all his age and authority to bear. “I begin to understand what my son sees in you,” the Elvenking said. “Your loyalty and faith in him is reassuring. No doubt Thorin could see it today as well, which is why your settlement ended so poorly. The Dwarf cannot bear to know that you love Legolas and that your love has been returned.” 

The Elvenking laughed again, but this time it was a quiet laugh and filled with pity. “Legolas’s efforts have been for naught,” he said in a somber tone. “Oh, yes,” he said at Bard’s surprised look. “I know all this has been my son’s doing, though the specifics yet elude me. He has played on Thorin’s feelings for him to sway the Dwarf toward reason. But dragon sickness can only be kept at bay for so long, and those same feelings that Thorin holds for him are what backfired today. ” 

“That is not what Legolas did,” Bard countered, but even he could hear the doubt in his own voice.

“Never doubt my son’s skills in manipulation,” Thranduil answered swiftly. “He is as deadly with his words as he is with bow and blade. The love and affection he wields so easily from others gives him great power, and he uses it to bend them to his will, as you well know.” 

Bard was looking at the Elvenking in utter shock. “How can you say that about him?” 

The Elvenking’s smile was dangerous and knowing. “Although Legolas may use it to different ends, nevertheless it is a skill that he learned from me.” 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is nothing harder for me to write than action scenes. They are _the worst_. I'll take smut over action, and I struggle with smut too. There. Just wanted to get that off my chest. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

On horseback, the journey to Gundabad would have taken half a day. Thanks to Landroval and his companions, the Elves made it to the Orc stronghold by mid morning. The land below them was silent and desolate. Nothing stirred. 

“What do you wish to do now?” Landroval asked the Prince as they flew in a wide sweeping circle far above the fortress. Even from the great height, Legolas could see clearly the land below. 

“We will wait for cover of darkness,” the Prince answered. “Do not fly so close to the tower,” he cautioned. “There may be spies inside whom we cannot see.” 

“The tower looks abandoned, my Lord,” Súlon said, for the three eagles were flying in close proximity in a tight formation. 

“Nay,” Tauriel contradicted. “I saw a light, for a moment, in that Western window.” Her companions looked in the direction that Tauriel was pointing, but all that greeted them was a darkened window. 

“Looks may be deceiving,” Legolas said, replying to Súlon’s statement. “And we must be certain. We will enter the tower under cover of darkness.” 

The Prince instructed Landroval to drop them off on a rocky promontory overlooking the tower’s Western side entrance, where Tauriel had seen the brief flicker of a light. 

“We will remain nearby,” the great eagle told the Prince. “Call, when you have need of us.”

The three Elves settled themselves, hidden amid the rocky outcropping, for the long wait. They could feel the death and decay that surrounded them, for nothing would grow in the cursed earth of Angmar. The Song of Ilúvatar was all but silenced. Too much blood had been spilled and the dark forces that had once thrived there had poisoned the earth. The foul environment visibly dampened their spirits and they remained quiet as they kept watch on the tower. There was no shelter to be had in their hideout but it did seem to matter much since the day remained gray and overcast, as though Anor herself were unwilling to shine her light upon Gundabad. 

At noon Súlon brought out three _lembas_ cakes that had been packed for their journey and gave one each to the Prince and Tauriel. They ate quietly. The Elvish way bread was delicious and filling. It would last them well into the night. 

“Do you really think the Dwarf will negotiate a settlement with Bard?” Súlon eventually asked, breaking the silence. He was starting to find the atmosphere oppressive. 

“I am hopeful that it will happen,” Legolas answered. 

“Was Thorin well when you saw him?” Tauriel inquired. She had heard of Legolas’s little trip to Erebor from Súlon. 

“No,” Legolas admitted. “He was much changed at first but he seemed to improve the more time I spent with him.” 

“I suppose that is to be expected,” Tauriel murmured, but did not elaborate. “Did you see . . .” she began again but then trailed off, slightly embarrassed. 

“Yes,” Legolas said quickly, knowing precisely whom Tauriel meant. His friend blushed slightly but she also smiled, making her look very young. It was moments like these that stripped away the persona of a cold warrior that Tauriel had perfected, reminding Legolas of the great age difference between them, and why he treated her as though she were a younger sibling. 

“Kili is well,” Legolas continued. “Though obviously concerned for his uncle’s well being. He welcomed me gladly to Erebor, even sharing with the others the invitation he had extended to both of us at Lake Town. It was an excuse to justify my sudden appearance and ease the suspicions of the company.”

“Did it work?” 

“To a certain extent. But in the end it was Thorin himself who offered his hospitality and laid the others’ concerns to rest.” 

Súlon continued eating quietly as the other two Elves conversed. He knew how open-minded the Prince was, especially in contrast to his father, but he still found Legolas’s relationship with Thorin Oakenshield (not to mention Tauriel’s dealings with Thorin’s nephew) to be most strange. Nothing was ever openly said or admitted but Súlon was no fool. There was much more going on between the Prince and the King under the Mountain than either party was letting on. He dreaded to think of what the Elvenking’s reaction would be when he found out. That was why Bard had covered for Legolas that morning when the Prince could not be found, and why Súlon had followed Bard’s lead. They had both wanted to protect the Prince from his father’s wrath. But nothing could be kept from Thranduil for long.

“My Lord,” Súlon said quietly, catching the two Elves attention. He motioned towards the fortress, where an elevated side door had been opened.

Legolas and Tauriel immediately ceased their conversation, and the three Elves watched behind the outcropping as a group of Orcs left the fortress, mounted a warg pack that awaited them below and rode out of Gundabad. 

“It is a hunting party,” Legolas whispered. 

“The fortress is not abandoned after all,” Súlon said. “Must we still enter?” 

“Yes,” Legolas replied with conviction. “We do not know the strength of their forces or their intentions. Let us use the daylight to rest and rotate the watch. I will take the first watch and I will rouse you, Súlon, when it is your turn.”

~*~*~*~*~

When night fell, the fortress of Gundabad came to life. The black windows were now illuminated by burning torches and the Elves could easily discern movement in the flickering light. The hunting party returned and with them a host of Orcs dressed in battle array. They no longer entered through the side entrance but marched in orderly rows through the great double doors of the main gate that had been opened for them.

“It is a gathering of some sort,” Súlon observed. 

“It is a call to battle,” Legolas replied darkly. 

“How shall we enter?” Tauriel asked, keen eyes scanning the stronghold. “Through the side door? It is likely not well guarded with the attention of the Orcs on the incoming host.” 

“It will still be locked,” Súlon pointed out. 

“Then we knock,” Tauriel replied.

“The side door it is,” Legolas agreed. “Let us go.” 

They left their rocky perch at last, silently and swiftly making their way down and around the hill, using it as cover against the entering Orc army. The side entrance was elevated from the main gate and the Elves scaled the rock face against which the Gundabad fortress had been built as a defense. When they reached the entrance, Tauriel took position on one side of the narrow door while Súlon stood on the other side. Legolas stood beside Súlon, keeping out of sight of the wooden viewfinder, which he knew would slide open the moment he knocked. With a quick glance at his companions to make sure that they were ready, the Prince rapped loudly on the door. 

There was a scuffling noise and then the viewfinder slid open. An Orc called out in Black Speech. Súlon’s surprise was visible when the Prince answered in the same harsh, guttural language, his voice pitched deeper and sounding nothing like himself. His answer must have been satisfactory because there was the sound of a bolt being unlocked and then the door swung open. The Orc that had opened the door stepped out into the night and before he could even turn his head, Legolas had driven Orcrist straight into his belly. The Orc had no time to cry out and he slumped over the sword, Legolas easily bearing his full weight. The Prince kept the dead Orc upright as a shield as he quickly surveyed the room beyond. It was a small guardroom, lined on two walls with weapons. There were four more Orcs seated at a table on the right side of the room, eating and drinking loudly. Legolas whispered behind him the layout of the room and the position of the four Orcs. Tauriel had moved from her original place and was now standing beside the other Elven Captain. One of the Orcs at the table had called out to their comrade at the door, wondering what was taking so long. Legolas signaled to his friends and then he thrust the dead Orc off his sword. The body landed with a heavy thud as Legolas simultaneously ducked. The first two Orcs to respond to the commotion were cut down by arrows from Súlon and Tauriel. From his position on the floor Legolas also drew his bow and slew the third Orc as it attempted to stand. The last Orc was dispatched a second later by another arrow from Tauriel’s bow. It fell on top of the table. 

The Elves entered the guardroom, Súlon shutting and barring the door behind them. Tauriel immediately went to the other entrance in the room and kept a lookout. 

“It is clear,” she said to the others.

Legolas went to the weapons rack, but instead of taking down any of the swords or daggers or axes (for the Elves naturally had their own weapons), he reached for the black cloaks that were hung on pegs by the racks. They were filthy and smelled of Orc, but they would do for disguises. They could not wander about Gundabad in their present garb. He tossed the other two cloaks to Tauriel and Súlon. 

“Where to?” Tauriel whispered when Legolas and Súlon joined her at the entrance leading into the fortress proper. They were in the main keep of the fortress. The upper floors were silent, but there was raucous, guttural laughter coming from below. 

“We follow the sound and the stench,” Legolas replied. 

Drawing the hoods of their cloaks over their heads, the Elves left the guardroom and took the circular staircase down into the bowels of the fortress.

“It is much deeper and wider than it looks from the outside,” Súlon whispered as they went. 

“The armory of Gundabad is underground,” Legolas answered just as quietly. “It is a wide network of large caverns and passages hewn from the earth. The fortress itself is but the tip of the stronghold.”

They did not encounter any other Orcs as they descended and it soon became apparent why. The great hall of the fortress was empty and as the Elves descended deeper and deeper, they became aware that the inhabitants had congregated on the floor of the massive armory, a veritable sea of Orcs stretched to the boundaries of the main armory. In the side caverns and passages came the sounds of metal being worked and the hiss of newly forged weapons being dipped into vats to temper their hardness. 

The Elves left the main passageway as the Orcs that were trooping in from outside came to join their brethren on the main floor. They found a secluded alcove above the elevated rock mound that served as a dais. On this dais stalked a familiar foe. 

“Bolg,” Legolas said, his lips curling into a sneer.

The laughter and loud talk in a mixture of Black Speech and Common Tongue was silenced when Bolg lifted up his arms. Then he began to speak, his voice carrying clearly over the well-constructed acoustical space of the enormous cavern. 

“What does he say?” Tauriel asked after several long minutes for both she and Súlon could not understand the speech of Mordor.

The Prince’s face was hard and calculating in the flickering torchlight of the great cavern. “It is a war speech,” Legolas replied. “Gandalf was right. Gundabad has allied itself with the Dol Guldur. They serve the same Master. I have heard enough,” he told his companions. “We must leave and warn our friends. Once Bolg is finished here the army will march to Erebor. They can be there in less than a day.”

Soundlessly, the Elves left the alcove and retraced their steps back to the guardroom from where they had entered. Behind them began the rhythmic beating of weapons on the earthen floor as Bolg whipped his followers into a frenzy of blood lust. Once more, the Elves did not encounter any inhabitants of the fortress as they walked the passageway since everyone was gathered in the armory to hear Bolg’s speech. But once they arrived at the door of the same guardroom, Legolas hesitated. 

“What is it?” Tauriel asked. 

Legolas looked troubled. “Something Bolg said does not sit well with me,” he replied. He glanced up in the other direction of the winding staircase, the one that lead to the darkened upper floors of the keep. “There is something I must confirm,” he said. 

“Legolas,” Tauriel said urgently. “Do we have the time for this?”

“We must make the time,” Legolas answered. Then he paused, his calculating gaze landing on Tauriel so that she felt uneasy. “Tauriel,” he said, and there was no mistaking the authority in his voice. He was speaking to Tauriel as her liege and not as her childhood friend. “Call Menelcar and return to Erebor. Tell my father, Bard and Gandalf of what we have seen here. Our armies must be prepared when the Orcs arrive.” 

Tauriel shook her head. “I will not leave you,” she replied. 

“You have no choice,” Legolas said, his tone brooking no further argument. “It is imperative that this news reach Erebor. There is too much at stake.” His expression softened. “And I am not alone. Súlon is my official bodyguard, courtesy of my father.” At this, he gave the other Captain a conspiratorial smile, one that Súlon couldn’t help but return despite the gravity of the situation. “Go!” he ordered. “We will follow.” 

Tauriel held her ground, the defiance plainly seen in her eyes. But after a moment she relented, bowing formally before the Prince as she stalked out of the guardroom, not once looking back. Súlon bolted the side door after Tauriel had left. 

“And where are we going?” the Elven Captain inquired politely when they were alone. 

“Exploring,” Legolas answered.

~*~*~*~*~

The upper floors of the fortress were even more abandoned than the rest of the keep. It did not appear as if anyone lived or occupied these rooms or so Legolas and Súlon thought until they reached the topmost floor, the one that led out into the wall walk of the great tower where the Elves knew another guard was posted. The topmost floor was brightly lit and spotlessly clean, especially by Orc standards. From the shadows of the staircase, the two Elves surveyed the wide circular space. Two Orcs stood guarding a large door opposite the staircase, while on the left was another guardroom. Beside the guardroom was another smaller passageway that led to the roof of the fortress where a stone walkway doubled as a perimeter watchtower. From their position, the Elves could not see how many Orcs were in the guardroom, but based on the voices they estimated at least half a dozen, eight or more in total including the two on sentry duty. There was no guessing how many Orcs were in the walkway above them.

“I suppose that is our destination,” Súlon murmured, his gaze drifting over the large door. 

“It must be something worth protecting if there is group of Orcs on this single floor when everyone else is at the war gathering, and all other floors leading to this one are abandoned,” Legolas answered.

“We can take those two from here,” Súlon said, indicating the guards by the door. “Then head straight for the guardroom and dispatch the Orcs that are there. Once that is done, you should enter the main room and see what Bolg has hidden. I will go to the walkway and see how many Orcs are on the watchtower. If they are a manageable number, I will take care of them and rejoin you here. If there are too many, I will keep watch over the passageway until you have finished your business.” When Súlon stopped speaking, he realized that the Prince was looking at him with an amused expression. 

“If that plan is satisfactory,” the Elven Captain added, embarrassed at his own presumption. 

“It is satisfactory,” Legolas agreed, still smiling.

The Elves efficiently put Súlon’s plan into action. Two carefully landed arrows felled the Orcs guarding the door. Even before the Orcs could hit the floor, Legolas and Súlon had left their hiding place and had to the entrance of the guardroom. They fired two arrows apiece into the foreheads of the Orcs seated at the table for their evening meal. The remaining three Orcs rushed at the two Elves, but they were no match for the lethal beauty of Orcrist and Súlon’s own twin blades. With the immediate threat taken care of Súlon silently climbed the passageway leading up to the tower roof. Legolas watched the captain for a moment before proceeding to the main room. 

He reached for the iron handle but then stopped, fingers hovering over the metal. Dark magic. He could feel its foul pulsating glow radiating from the door. A sorcerer of some power had placed an enchantment on the door and the Prince knew that touching it would trigger a warning to whoever had cast the spell and to whoever else was charged with the door’s protection. Bolg was not capable of this, or his father Azog. The Enemy himself must have come to Gundabad to place this spell. What lay behind the door must be very important. 

The Prince had no magic powerful enough to counteract such a spell. Gandalf would have been able to do something, but the wizard was not with them. Instead, the Elf took the filthy black cloak that he was wearing and wrapped the coarse material around his hand. If he were to break the spell, then at the very least the Enemy would not know that it had been broken by one of the Eldar. He gripped the handle firmly and pulled the door open. Immediately, he felt the burn of the protective spell passing through the material of the black cloak. It stung his skin and as soon as the door was open, he dropped the now smoking cloak. The circular antechamber led into another circular windowless room, not as well lit as the one outside. In fact, the only source of light in the room illuminated a single column at the center. It was a carven stone pedestal of some sort, covered by a flowing black cloth made of fine spun silk. Legolas approached the pedestal, his heart growing cold. He suspected he knew what lay beneath the silken cover. 

A few moments later Súlon entered the room, hurriedly shutting and bolting the door behind him. “My Lord,” he said, evidently distressed. “There are many voices coming from the main passageway. I do not know how, but it appears the Orcs are aware of our presence.” 

“There was a protective spell on the door,” Legolas answered, his gaze never leaving the round covered object on the pedestal. “I broke it the moment I entered the room.” 

Súlon followed the Prince’s gaze until he saw the column and the black cloth. “What is it?” he asked, taking a step towards the object.

Legolas lifted his hand, halting Sulon’s approach. “I am not yet certain,” the Prince answered. “But I believe it is an object of great power, coveted by many. I think it is a seeing stone, one of the lost palantir of Arnor. It would explain how the Enemy in Dol Guldur has managed to keep in contact with Gundabad.” 

“But none here would have the power to wield such a stone,” Súlon answered, glancing back at the door. The voices were nearer. 

“They do not wield it,” Legolas replied. “They are its passive recipients. It shows them images and it controls their minds. They are willing servants under the direct influence of the Enemy.” 

“My Lord,” Súlon said urgently. “We must depart. There is no exit from this room.” 

As though Súlon’s words snapped the Prince out of a reverie, Legolas strode forward and lifted the palantir, still covered in the black cloth, from its resting place. Instantly, the two Elves were plunged into darkness as the light in the room vanished. 

“Make for the door,” Legolas ordered.

The layout of the room was imprinted in both their minds and they had no trouble reaching the door. In the darkness, Súlon felt for the bolt and moved it. The voices outside were distinct. Some of the Orcs had reached the antechamber. Knowing the Prince could not use his bow while he held the palantir under one arm, Súlon reached for his weapon. He felt the Prince move in front of him to grasp the handle of the door. He would swing it open while Súlon fired into the waiting Orcs and provide cover. They could not escape down the main passageway. They would have to make for the roof. 

As if reading the Elven Captain’s mind, Legolas said quietly, “We head for the roof.”

Their movements in sync Legolas slid open the door, the first crack of light allowing Súlon to take aim and fire. He shot arrow after arrow into the horde of Orcs that had gathered in the antechamber. Orcrist sang with blood lust as Legolas cut his way through the throng, ducking, turning and slashing in his deadly grace. He cleared a path to the smaller passageway that led onto the roof with Súlon close behind him. But more Orcs were arriving, snarling and growling as they climbed over the bodies of their fallen comrades. 

The Elves ran up the passageway, the pursuing Orcs not far behind. Súlon fired more arrows behind him, killing the Orcs at the front of the pack that had crowded into the narrow passageway. They fell back, their heavy bodies temporarily hindering the others. There was no doorway at the top of the staircase and so Súlon threw down one of the iron burning braziers that lined the ramparts of the tower. There was a loud cry as the brazier spilled its contents and the hot coals landed on the Orcs below. 

When Súlon turned, he saw Legolas sprinting towards the edge of the nearest rampart. Alarmed, the Captain quickly followed but before he could stop the Prince, Legolas said, “Jump!” 

“What?” Súlon said in shock. 

“Jump!” the Prince ordered, grabbing Súlon with his free arm (Orcrist had already been sheathed) and propelling them towards the tower’s edge.

There was no time to question the Prince’s decision and Súlon found himself taking a literal leap of faith as they went over the ramparts together, the Prince releasing his arm as they fell over the edge. Around them the sky swirled with an unnatural blackness and the Elven Captain was dimly aware of the sound of numerous beating wings and the harsh cries that accompanied them. The night sky was populated with swarming creatures. _Giant war bats_ , Súlon realized, being released from the bowels of Gundabad. They were falling amid these monstrous creatures. _Falling to their death_ , the Captain thought with certainty until he unexpectedly landed on a firm back made of feather down. 

Meneldor.

In front of Súlon, the Prince was securely riding on Landroval’s back. _Of course_ , the Captain realized with an admiring glance at his liege. Legolas had called Landroval once they had reached the roof of the tower. But the giant war bats, who had paid the two Elves no attention as they were falling, now zeroed in on the magnificent eagles in their midst. Landroval and Meneldor strove ever higher for the heavens, but the bats continued to swarm around them, diving and baiting the great eagles. Súlon began firing his arrows once more at the bats around them, but his quiver was almost empty. In front of him, he could see Legolas doing the same. The Prince must have secured the palantir somehow in order to be able to use his bow. But there were too many bats and the Prince’s quiver would soon be depleted as well. The eagles tried to maneuver amidst the crush of the giant bats until a gut-wrenching cry, unlike the screeches of the war bats, filled the air. Súlon realized too late that the cry had come from Meneldor and then he was falling again, holding onto the great eagle as it plummeted from the sky.


	15. Chapter 15

When the negotiations with Bard had collapsed beyond all hope earlier that afternoon, Bilbo made up his mind to pay another visit to the Elvenking’s camp much later that evening when the rest of the company was asleep. He would have thrust the Arkenstone into Bard’s hands as he’d escorted the Man out of Erebor if he’d been able to find a moment alone with him, but Thorin’s wrath had been all encompassing and Bard had had to make a hasty exit. Bilbo had never felt so rude as he’d practically shoved Bard down the rope ladder that the Man had used to climb up to the rampart of Erebor. It hadn’t been a moment too soon since Thorin appeared on the rampart a few minutes later, Dwalin still stalking close behind him looking grim and determined. The King under the Mountain was wielding an axe and the other dwarves rapidly got out of his way. Bilbo followed their lead, stepping away from the rope ladder as Thorin brought the axe down, neatly cutting the rope in two. Thankfully, Bard was already three quarters of the way down the ladder and as Bilbo quickly looked over the rampart in alarm, he saw the Man land most ungracefully on his bottom. 

“Ouch,” Bofur said beside the Hobbit, also peering over the rampart. “That must’a hurt.” 

Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief as Bard stood up and dusted himself off, glancing up at the ramparts as he did so. The Man looked terribly irritated and Bilbo could hardly blame him. 

“I guess that ends ‘negotiations,’” Bofur commented. 

Bilbo merely sighed in response. It hadn’t even been a full day and he missed Legolas already.

~*~*~*~*~

It was Bombur who was on guard duty that night when Bilbo made his way back up to the ramparts. Bombur was sitting on a stool that he’d brought out from the West guardroom, munching noisily on a fresh carrot from the supplies Legolas had dropped off.

“Bilbo!” Bombur greeted the Hobbit warmly when Bilbo appeared at his side. “What’re you doing up?” 

“Can’t sleep,” Bilbo replied and it was true enough. He was much too agitated to even attempt sleep. 

“A bit of insomnia?” Bombur asked. 

“No, no,” Bilbo said with a shake of his head. “Usually, I sleep quite well. It’s just . . . well . . . this afternoon’s events . . .” he trailed off. 

“Ah,” Bombur said understandingly. “Unpleasant business,” he agreed before taking another bite of his carrot.

“Bombur,” Bilbo began, eyeing the Dwarf thoughtfully. “Would you like me to take the first watch? I can’t sleep anyway. You can take my turn later.” 

“Exchange guard duty?” Bombur said. He looked pleased by the idea. “I am feeling a little sleepy,” he admitted. “That’s why I’m eating this,” he added, holding up the last stub of the carrot. “Thought it might keep me awake. It’s nice to have fresh produce. That Elf Prince’s not so bad, is he?” 

“Legolas?” Bilbo said with a smile. “No, not so bad at all.” 

“Well, then,” Bombur said, standing up and stretching. “I shall take you up on your offer, Master Hobbit. You’ll wake me when it’s my turn?” 

“Of course,” Bilbo assured his friend.

Bombur patted Bilbo on the shoulder as he passed by the Hobbit, returning to the West guardroom where there was also a comfortable cot on which to take a nap. 

Bilbo watched him go before taking his place on the stool. He sat there and began to count. The urge to simply throw a rope over the ramparts and to begin the climb down was great, but he couldn’t be hasty. He had to make sure the coast was clear.

After what felt like an interminable amount of time to the Hobbit (which, in reality, was only ten minutes), Bilbo securely tied a rope and then hurriedly climbed down. It was almost midnight and the whole company, save perhaps Thorin who was still wandering amongst the dragon hoard, should have been sound asleep. In his haste, Bilbo landed with an uncharacteristic thud on the ground and then stumbled in the dark so that he fell into the watery moat that had formed when the Dwarves had destroyed the massive carved statue of Durin to act as a perimeter defense to the gate. 

Bilbo was wet, uncomfortable and deeply unhappy by the time he sneaked into the Elves’ camp. Look for Bard or Gandalf, Legolas had said, and that’s what Bilbo intended to do now. Luckily, he didn’t have to look far for the Man and the Wizard were deep in conversation at the edge of the camp, their faces flickering in the glow of one of the border fires. Bilbo didn’t mean to eavesdrop on them but what he heard caused him immediate alarm. 

“He intends to go to war,” Bard was saying. 

“What?” Gandalf’s shock was evident. 

“I do not agree with his decision and I have told him thus, but he is bent on it. He says that Thorin’s kin will be at the mountain in less than a day. He would not lose the strategic advantage we now possess.” 

Gandalf harrumphed in response and was about to say something else when Bilbo’s voice interrupted their conversation.

“The Elvenking is right,” the Hobbit confirmed. “Thorin sent a raven to his cousin Dain of the Iron Hills shortly after Legolas left this morning. There is a good chance they will arrive as early as tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf said, looking both extremely pleased and surprised to see the Hobbit. “What on earth has happened to you?” he asked, taking in Bilbo’s disheveled and grubby appearance. 

“Your adventure has happened to me,” Bilbo replied dryly. 

At this, the Wizard laughed heartily while Bard looked on in slight confusion from the Wizard to the Hobbit. “You two know each other?” he inquired. 

Bilbo thrust a finger in Gandalf’s direction, a shockingly rude gesture for the well-mannered Hobbit. “It’s _his_ fault that I’m in this mess,” he told Bard. 

Gandalf was still chuckling. “And you are a better Hobbit for it,” he added, good-humoredly. But his good mood faded when he began to dwell on Bilbo’s news. “So it’s begun,” he said thoughtfully. “The dwarves are returning to Erebor and Dain will come to Thorin’s aid.” He turned his keen eyes on the Hobbit again and this time the question he asked was not in jest. 

“Why are you here?” 

Bilbo’s good humor faded as well and his expression grew grave. “Legolas told me to seek you and Bard out if the negotiations failed today,” he answered. “And they did fail. Quite spectacularly.” The look on Bard’s face told the Hobbit that there was no need to rehash those details. 

“For what reason?” Gandalf pressed.

“There was something I wanted to give Legolas this morning,” Bilbo began, reaching into his wet jacket pocket. “Something I thought might prevent war with the Dwarves.” He paused in his actions and looked up. “Perhaps the Elvenking should see it too,” he suggested. “This concerns him as well since it is his army that will march on Erebor in the morning.” 

Gandalf nodded. “Let us go to Thranduil’s tent,” he agreed, putting an arm around the Hobbit. “And let’s get you out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold.”

~*~*~*~*~

Inside the Elvenking’s tent a little while later, Bilbo thought he was going to melt into a puddle under the scrutiny of Thranduil. He knew what a strange sight he must make. He was wearing a pair of child’s trousers and a clean dry undershirt that Bard had found for him, but without his jacket, which was drying, the _mithril_ shirt that Thorin had given him gleamed and glittered in the firelight of the Elvenking’s tent. It was strange to be standing in front of the Elvenking wearing a _mithril_ shirt that had once been crafted for an Elf Princeling as Balin had told him. The _mithril_ was not amiss amid the finery in Thranduil’s battlefield tent, except that Bilbo was not an Elf Princeling and the Elvenking probably considered him to be an adversary.

Thranduil’s expression was severe when he finally spoke. “If I’m not mistaken,” the King said imperiously. “This is the Halfling who stole the keys to my dungeons from under the nose of my guards.” 

More than ever, Bilbo wished that Legolas were around. He didn’t think Thranduil would be half as frightening if the Prince were by his side. _Oh why couldn’t Legolas have just taken the Arkenstone in the first place_ , the Hobbit silently lamented.

Outwardly, he coughed in embarrassment at Thranduil’s statement. “Er, yes,” he admitted, completely abashed. “Sorry about that.” Then he gathered his courage and strode forward, placing the handkerchief wrapped stone on a small table in front of the Elvenking. “I came to give you this,” he said as he unwrapped the object. 

“The heart of the mountain,” Thranduil said in quiet surprise as he stood up to get a better look. Bilbo stepped backwards as Thranduil approached the table with Bard on the other side of the Elvenking. “The King’s jewel,” he said almost reverently, fingers ghosting over the stone. 

“And worth a King’s ransom,” Bard said practically. He turned towards Bilbo. “How is this yours to give?” 

“I took it as my fourteenth share of the treasure,” Bilbo explained. 

“Why would you do this?’ Bard questioned. “You owe us no loyalty.”

Bilbo shook his head. “No, no,” he said adamantly. “I’m not doing this for you.” At the surprised looks of the others in the tent, he continued. “I know that Dwarves can be obstinate and pig-headed and difficult. Suspicious, secretive, with the worst manners you can possibly imagine,” he added, hazarding a look at Gandalf, who half-smiled knowingly in return. “But they are also brave and kind and loyal to a fault.” He sighed, letting his words sink in to his audience. “I’ve grown very fond of them and I would save them if I can.” 

Silence followed this heartfelt explanation and the shift in attitude in the tent was almost palpable. A warmth that did not come from the fire suffused Bilbo’s limbs. He had convinced these noble lords that his intentions were true and the smile he received from Gandalf further encouraged him. 

“Thorin values this stone above all else,” he continued boldly. “In exchange for its return, I believe he will give you what you’re owed. There will be no need for war.”

The Hobbit inadvertently met the Elvenking’s eyes as he said his last statement and he was captivated by Thranduil’s cerulean gaze. _He is just like Legolas_ , Bilbo thought. He had avoided spending any time in Thranduil’s company as much as he could when he’d been sneaking about the Elvenking’s palace. Thranduil’s senses appeared to be even keener than most Elves (and that was saying much), for there had been several occasions when the Elvenking appeared to know when Bilbo was in the room with him even though Bilbo had been wearing his magic ring. Now there was no mistaking the haughtiness in Thranduil, the impenetrable Elven mask of ice, but Bilbo also thought that underneath all that he detected a twinkle of warmth, the faintest admiration for his actions. That admiration was a look that he had seen more openly in Legolas’s eyes and it drove home the similarity between father and son. Thranduil, Bilbo decided, was not as unreasonable as he had been made to believe. 

Just when the matter appeared settled, a commotion outside the tent drew their attention away from the Arkenstone to the tent’s entrance where, a few moments later, an amber-haired Elf entered despite the loud objections of Thranduil’s guards. Bilbo recognized the Elven Captain instantly.

“This cannot wait!” Tauriel exclaimed, storming inside. She immediately halted when she saw the gathering that she had interrupted and dropped down onto one knee before the Elvenking, bowing her head as she did so. “My Lord,” she said respectfully. “I bring urgent news from your son.” 

The guards who had followed Tauriel into the tent stood on either side of her, prepared to haul her off if need be. Thranduil dismissed them with a wave of his hand, motioning for Tauriel to stand at the same time. Tauriel rose gracefully to her feet. 

“Where is my son?” Thranduil asked her.

The Elven Captain looked uncomfortable when she answered. “He is still at Gundabad,” she replied. “Súlon is with him. Legolas sent me ahead to deliver some ill news.” 

A flash of annoyance briefly marred Thranduil’s features and when he spoke, it was unclear at whom his annoyance was directed – at Tauriel or at Legolas. “It is good to know that you at least follow _his_ orders,” Thranduil told her, his tone sharp and filled with reproach. “What are these ill tidings that you bring?” 

“There is an Orc army at Gundabad,” Tauriel said, her gaze never wavering despite Thranduil’s stormy look. “We have seen it with our own eyes. We arrived at the fortress by mid-morning and waited for dusk to fall. There was no movement at the fortress during the day, but when night fell legions of Orcs appeared, marching toward Gundabad. The gates opened for them and we used their arrival as a distraction to enter via a side door. We followed this Orc army into the bowels of Gundabad, where they gathered in the underground caverns of the armory to join those already there. It is Bolg who leads them and who roused them with his words. Súlon and I could not understand the Black Speech, but Legolas told us that it was a war speech and that the army will leave for Erebor tonight. They could be at the mountain in a day, a day and a half at the most. There is no longer any doubt that they have formed an alliance with the Dol Guldur.” 

As the others processed the implications of Tauriel’s report, Thranduil asked, “Why did my son remain behind?” 

“I am not certain,” Tauriel admitted, with an uncharacteristic shrug of her shoulders. “He only said that there was something he wished to confirm, that something Bolg had mentioned made him uneasy. He did not elaborate.” 

Thranduil looked very displeased, but before he could interrogate Tauriel further, Gandalf spoke. 

“Thranduil,” the wizard said, drawing the Elvenking’s attention. “This news changes everything. Legolas sent Tauriel ahead so that we could prepare.” 

“Indeed,” Thranduil replied coldly. “And in exchange he puts himself at great risk.” 

“The matter must have been very urgent for him to do so,” Gandalf continued smoothly. “Legolas is your best warrior,” he added. “I have faith in his judgment, his abilities and his skills.”

Gandalf’s last statement seemed to placate Thranduil somewhat since the Elvenking could not deny their truth. Legolas was indeed his best warrior, his skills with bow and blade unmatched among their people. 

“Thorin should be told,” Bilbo suddenly spoke up, his small voice surprising everyone. They all turned to look at him. “About the Orc army approaching.”

“It is not just a single army,” Gandalf reminded them. “Erebor will be attacked on two fronts. We are now certain that Gundabad is in league with Dol Guldur. If Bolg comes from the north, then Azog comes from the south. It troubles me deeply that we have lost sight of Azog’s forces. They must have found an alternative route that evades our scouts.” 

Thranduil did not acknowledge Gandalf’s words, instead looking back at Bilbo. “And who will bring Thorin this news now that my son is not here?”

At the Elvenking’s question, Bilbo’s mouth dropped open in surprise. He didn’t think that Thranduil had known about Legolas’s secret visit to Erebor and judging by Bard’s uneasy expression, the Man hadn’t appeared to know it either. Bilbo had enough sense to realize that he was gaping rudely at the Elvenking and so he quickly said, “I will. I will tell Thorin about both Orc armies. He is expecting the news from Gundabad anyway. Legolas told him of his trip.” 

The Elvenking’s smile sliced sharp and knowing. “So it _was_ my son who visited Thorin behind my back, shared our intelligence and then swayed the Dwarf to settlement in an attempt to avoid war.”

Bilbo froze. The Elvenking had tricked him, had used him to confirm only what Thranduil had suspected but had yet been able to prove. The Hobbit felt his face growing warm. Thranduil had baited him so easily. 

“Do not fret, Master Hobbit,” Thranduil said, his smile not quite as sharp. “I am well aware of my son’s activities.” 

“You’re not going to punish him, are you?” Bilbo asked, silently horrified that he had asked such an inappropriate question in front of such an esteemed audience. 

But Thranduil took this breach of decorum in stride and he merely laughed, the sound musical and light, breaking the heaviness that had settled in the tent. “You are very fond of him,” he said approvingly, his eyes shining with warmth. 

Bilbo noticed that the response was not an answer to his question, but he solemnly replied, “Legolas is my friend.”

“You are very brave,” Thranduil said, the approval still in his tone. “The _periannath_ may be small, but they are known for their courage.” He smiled kindly at the Hobbit. “You are a good friend, Bilbo Baggins. Go then. Tell Thorin Oakenshield of the approaching Orc armies, but you must do more than that.” 

“What do you mean?” Bilbo asked, slightly concerned. 

“Thorin’s kin are coming to his aid,” Thranduil explained. “If my estimate is correct, Dain Ironfoot’s army will be here by tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Fortunate timing,” Gandalf said. “It will give us time to consolidate our forces before the Orcs arrive.”

The Elvenking finally looked at the wizard. “It is only fortunate if the Dwarves are reasonable, which has never been their strongest trait. Given what happened this afternoon,” he continued, glancing at Bard. “I don’t expect Thorin or his cousin Dain to be in the most reasonable of moods.” Then he looked at Bilbo once more, his piercing gaze pinning the Hobbit in place. “You must convince Thorin to stand the Dwarf army down. If Dain Ironfoot attacks, I will have no choice but to respond in kind.” 

Bilbo somehow managed to not visibly tremble, even though he was certain that his knees had turned to putty. “But how am I going to do that?” he exclaimed. “I’m not Legolas.” 

The Elvenking’s lips quirked upwards in an amused smile. “You will have to do for now,” he replied.

“But surely Thorin will no longer attack,” Bard stepped in. “Not when he knows the stakes are different, that everything has changed. Our differences with him must be set aside for the good of all.” 

“Thorin is not himself,” Thranduil answered, although his gaze remained fixed on the Hobbit. “He has been afflicted by dragon sickness, like his grandfather before him. It runs in the line of Durin.” 

Bilbo grew somber. “It is true,” he said. “Thorin is not himself and it is only Legolas who appears to be able to reach him.”

Thranduil stepped towards the Hobbit, but his expression was kind. “You will do your best,” he told Bilbo quietly. “Because you are my son’s friend and because you are Thorin’s friend too. This is not a question of loyalty. We do what is right.” 

Bilbo gazed up at the Elvenking and he was unafraid. He smiled in return. “You are just like Legolas,” he said before he could stop himself.

At this observation, Thranduil laughed again. “Perhaps Legolas is just like me,” he answered, his smile both haughty and sincere. “Take some refreshment and rest a while,” he said. “But you must return before you are missed.” He motioned behind him at the table where the Arkenstone had been temporarily forgotten. “We thank you for your generous offering and we shall keep it as leverage to use if or when the need arises.” 

There was something in Thranduil’s tone that informed the others that their impromptu meeting had drawn to an end and no one objected. 

“Tauriel,” the Elvenking said. “See to this Hobbit. Make sure he returns to Erebor safely.” 

“Yes, my Lord,” Tauriel replied, bowing before the King. Then she motioned for Bilbo to follow her.

Hesitantly, Bilbo bowed before the Elvenking as well, even though he was not one of Thranduil’s subjects. This amused the King and he inclined his head in acknowledgement. Gandalf exited the tent with Tauriel and Bilbo and then it was only Bard and Thranduil left. 

“Does something trouble you, Bowman?” Thranduil asked, crossing to the table of refreshments where there was a decanter of wine. He poured himself a goblet and then a second one for Bard. He passed the other goblet to Bard as he walked back to his carven throne. Bard accepted but, as usual, did not drink. Thranduil was beginning to think that Bard was the most serious, most grim man he had ever encountered. Surely, the Bowman was not this way around his son. Legolas would not stand for it. 

Bard sighed. “I am troubled about Legolas,” he said. “If you send a party after him, I would like to accompany them.” 

Thranduil’s look was sharp. “Your intentions are noble, Bowman,” he said. “But you are needed here. As loathe as I am to admit it, Gandalf was right. War _is_ upon us. Your people will need a leader to guide them.”

“But Legolas –” 

“Do not fear for him,” Thranduil said commandingly. Then his voice softened. “You must put your feelings aside and concentrate on the task at hand. That is what it means to lead.” 

“But he is your son.” 

“And I will see him soon.”

~*~*~*~*~

The sky was black with swarming creatures. Legolas’s senses were assaulted by them, by their sight, by their sound, by the foul stench that they emitted. He knew the keening cry behind him had come from Meneldor and though he was gripped with a sudden fear for the eagle and Súlon’s safety, he also knew that the only way he could help them was to distract their assailants. The war bats had to remain focused on him and Landroval, so they would not continue to attack their wounded friends. Perhaps they could buy some time for Meneldor and Súlon to escape or at least think of a plan of their own. The Prince leaned forward and gave instructions to Landroval. The eagle shot forward with a burst of speed but instead of flying upwards as they had been, Landroval dived. For several seconds, the bats following them were disoriented by the sudden change in course, but they quickly adjusted.

The great eagle made for the rocky canyons lining the right side of the Gundabad fortress as Legolas had instructed. The canyons ran parallel to the path that the Orc army had marched on their way to the fortress. They were like a maze and selecting one of the wider openings, Landroval shot through. With his speed, the eagle had managed to open up some distance between them and the pursuing bats but Legolas knew that the advantage would not last for long. The bats dove into the canyon opening as well, trailing behind Landroval like an angry, whirling hurricane. The bats, being smaller in size, should have had the advantage in the narrower lanes of the canyon, but their numbers hindered them and the chase slowed as they were forced to thin their numbers out to accommodate the narrow space. Legolas’s keen eyes scanned the landscape as Landroval smoothly wove in between the canyon spaces despite the darkness, Legolas securely on his back. 

“Bank right,” the Elf ordered and the eagle obeyed, taking a sharp right turn that threw the nearest pursuing bats off their trail. The swarm divided into two as those in front continued to fly straight while those behind turned right onto the path that Landroval had taken. Legolas looked behind him and saw the first half of the swarm rising above the canyons, swooping backwards so that they could rejoin the chase. The momentary diversion had worked and the gap between them and the bats had increased. Legolas scanned the landscape again. Landroval could not keep this up for long. There had to be some way to trick the bats in order for them to escape. 

Making another hard turn that obstructed them from the pursuing bats, Legolas saw a series of caves along the canyon wall. They did not appear to be natural formations since the distances between each cave mouth appeared to be uniform. Legolas did not know their purpose or if they were even unoccupied, but it was a risk they would have to take. 

“Can you enter one of those caves?” he asked the eagle.

Landroval was breathing hard from his exertions. He dipped his head once in acknowledgement. The caves were lower to the ground and the eagle dived again. The bats would soon be upon them. It was imperative that they reach the caves before the bats regained sight of them. Without slowing his speed, Landroval dove straight into the cave with the largest entrance. The pitch-blackness of the cave was all encompassing. Legolas could see nothing. All he could hear was the sound of Landroval’s beating wings as the eagle desperately tried to slow their pace since they were flying blind into the darkness. Fortunately, the cave was deep and the great eagle was able to slow down before they crashed into anything. They came to a stop with Landroval folding his wings behind him. The eagle was tired and he nestled down on the cave floor precisely where they had halted. 

“You have done well, Landroval,” Legolas said, reaching out to run his hand along the eagle’s neck in a soothing gesture. “You have done very well.”

Legolas felt the eagle dip his head again in acknowledgement. He was still breathing hard. The Elf nimbly leaped off the eagle’s back, the palantir secure against his body where he had managed to tie it using its black covering. Underneath his feet the cave floor was very smooth, unnaturally so. It seemed almost polished. They had flown quite a distance into the cave. The entrance could only be dimly seen and beyond it, Legolas’s keen hearing could detect the sound of the bats flying past. War bats were mindless drones. They would not think to enter the caves so long as they had not caught Landroval and Legolas entering one of them. They only knew how to follow and pursue a visible quarry. 

“Rest, Landroval,” Legolas said, once more running his hand on the eagle’s side. “We must wait awhile for the bats to leave. They will circle the area and attempt to catch sight of us before giving up the chase.” 

“Meneldor,” the great eagle finally said. 

“We will return for him and for Súlon,” Legolas assured the eagle.

Certain that they were deep enough within the cave that a light would not be seen, Legolas took out his tinderbox and struck a match. The sound of the bats had receded into the distance. Legolas imagined that they were circling above the canyons now looking for their prey. He held the match aloft to get a look at their surroundings. The cave was perfectly circular, the walls around them as smooth as the floor on which Legolas was standing. 

“This is a most unusual cave,” the Elf commented quietly.

“It is no cave,” Landroval answered. The eagle nodded his head in the direction in front of them and the tiny flame from the match illuminated the long space that went deeper into the canyon. 

“It is a tunnel,” Legolas breathed. “But how? How can such a great tunnel be made? What machinery do the Orcs possess that they could carve the very earth?” 

The Elf was lost in thought as the light of his matched burned out.

“Landroval, that’s it!” Legolas exclaimed, striking another match. He would have to find some material to light a proper torch while they waited. 

The eagle looked at him with intelligent eyes in the glinting light. 

“This is how the eagles lost track of the Orcs from the Dol Guldur. This is why Gandalf did not encounter Azog’s army on his journey to Dale. The Orcs are traveling underground in tunnels such as these.”

Landroval cocked his head, keen eyes appraising the Elven Prince. 

“We have forgotten what dwells in the deep earth,” Legolas said. “The worms of old, cold-drakes whose strength lies in speed and tunneling. That is how Azog will reach Erebor.”


	16. Chapter 16

Súlon clung onto Meneldor as the great eagle fell from the sky. Despite his fear, he was relieved that the giant war bats were no longer pursuing them. He was aware of Legolas and Landroval leading the bats away, but he could not see where they had gone. Just then his only concern was for Meneldor. The eagle was wounded and Súlon craned his neck to see where and how severe was the injury. It did not take him long to see the broken end of an iron object lanced in the eagle’s side, near enough to Meneldor’s right wing to prevent the eagle from flexing it. If only he could reach it . . . 

Trying to keep a firm grip near the base of Meneldor’s neck, Súlon leaned over as far as he could on the eagle’s right side. Meneldor’s right wing made half-fluttering motions as the eagle tried to dislodge the object. 

“ _Garo_!” Súlon called out to the panicked eagle.

Evidently, Meneldor understood the Elvish command because he stilled his actions giving Súlon the opportunity to reach under his wing and pull out the obstruction. There was a sickening squelch as Súlon tugged the object out of Meneldor’s side. The great eagle immediately flexed his wing, moving it through the pain he must have felt. Blood was now flowing from the opened wound, its force increased by the flapping motions of Meneldor’s wing. They had been plummeting to the earth and they were so close to the ground that the only thing the eagle could do was to break their fall. Súlon clung to the great eagle as Meneldor tried to slow their momentum. They had flown a fair distance from the Gundabad fortress and were no longer on the path the Orc army would have to take when they eventually left the fortress. The land, however, was still dry and barren. There was no place to take shelter or to rest. Just then, Súlon spied a deep depression in the hard earth, almost like a crater. 

“There!” he said to Meneldor. “Do you see that crater?” 

The eagle did not respond, but the change in his trajectory showed that he had heard Súlon’s question. Wounded, and still descending at too rapidly a rate, Meneldor tried to maneuver for the darkened crater. The eagle hit the ground hard, putting most of his weight on his uninjured side as he crashed, his forward motion sliding him along the rough surface. Súlon, who had been holding onto Meneldor tightly, leaped off the eagle’s back when Meneldor crashed into the crater. He also landed hard, but he folded his body into a ball so that he tumbled on the ground to break his fall and avoid being crushed by the eagle. Almost in an instant, Súlon was back on his feet. His bow had been snapped by his landing and he slipped it off his back as he ran to where Meneldor lay unmoving.

~*~*~*~*~

Tauriel had made sure that Bilbo was properly fed and rested before surreptitiously escorting the Hobbit back to the gates of Erebor. From the top of the rampart, Bilbo had waved to her to assure her that everything was all right and then the Elven Captain had disappeared into the night.

Now Tauriel was walking quickly through the Elvenking’s camp, hoping that no one stopped her or inquired about her intentions. She had followed Legolas’s orders, but the Prince had not told her what to do _after_ delivering the news from Gundabad and Tauriel had a very clear idea of what she should do next. Thus, it was with some dismay that a voice calling her name stopped her. 

“Tauriel!”

Tauriel took a deep breath and turned around, schooling her features into a look of indifferent calm. “Yes?” she said. 

It was Bard who had stopped her. “You seem to be in a hurry,” the Man commented, coming to stand before her. 

“I have things to attend to,” Tauriel answered. 

“How is Bilbo?”

“Fine. He is back in Erebor and his absence appears to have gone unnoticed.” 

“Good. Very good,” Bard agreed absently. He seemed to be stalling for time, though for what reason Tauriel could not fathom. “I have yet to thank you,” the Man began again. “For saving my family from the Orc attack on my home and for getting the girls out of Lake Town safely.” 

Tauriel shook her head. “It was nothing,” she assured him. “Others would have done the same.” 

“Perhaps not,” Bard challenged lightly. “I thank you all the same,” he repeated.

There was another awkward silence and Tauriel wished that Bard would simply say what it was that he wanted to say. Wasn’t the race of Men supposed to be direct? She was about to inquire if Bard needed anything when the Man’s next comment took her by surprise. 

“You and Legolas are very close.” 

Tauriel stiffened. This was _not_ the direction she had expected the conversation to go. “I have known the Prince my whole life,” she said carefully. “I understand,” she added after a moment, “that you and the Prince are also very close.”

This time it was Bard’s turn to be taken by surprise and Tauriel inwardly smiled at how the Man also tensed in response to her statement. Bard’s relationship with Legolas was not common knowledge among their people. Legolas had been very discreet in his dealings with the Bowman. 

But Bard was not one to back down from a challenge and he cleared his throat, saying in a quiet but serious voice, “Yes. Yes, we are close. But,” he hesitated slightly. “I believe it is a different type of closeness from what you share with him.” 

“Very different,” Tauriel answered immediately with an arch of her delicate brow.

The admission on both their parts of what Legolas meant to each of them eased whatever tension had arisen and Bard smiled at the Elven Captain. “Are you going after him?” he asked bluntly. 

Tauriel exhaled loudly, an uncharacteristic action for her. There was no point in lying. “Legolas did not specify what I should do after delivering the report from Gundabad,” she said. “And since I have not been given any other orders . . .” she trailed off. 

It was understood that Tauriel was to remain at Erebor and help in the defense of the kingdom against the approaching Orc armies – she was, after all, a Captain and had teams under her command – but neither one of them was about to mention that. 

“You want to come with me,” Tauriel said, suddenly divining why Bard had sought her out. The look on Bard’s face confirmed her assessment. “Legolas would not want that,” she said seriously. “You are needed here.” 

Bard sighed. He had heard this before, and recently, from a certain Elvenking. It was, perhaps, the one thing Thranduil and Tauriel agreed on. 

“I know you are right,” Bard said at last, but he was still troubled. 

Although she barely knew the man, Tauriel reached out and squeezed his forearm. “Legolas will be fine,” she said earnestly. “Whatever trouble he has gotten himself into, he will find a way out of it. We both know how very resourceful he is. And he is not alone. Súlon is very capable.” She released Bard’s arm. “I will go and help them.” 

“Here,” Bard said, thrusting a small brown pack into her hands that Tauriel had not noticed he’d been carrying. “Some medicines – herbs, ointments, tinctures and bandages – of the Elvish and human variety. It may be needed.” 

Tauriel received the pack with a grateful smile. She had been about to gather medicinal supplies herself, but Bard had beat her to it. “How did you know?” she asked. 

Bard shrugged, half-smiling in return. “It is what Legolas would do,” he said, a tacit acknowledgement that Legolas, in his own way, had been both their teachers. 

“Thank you,” Tauriel said sincerely. “This will save time.” 

“Have a swift journey,” Bard told her. “And come back safely. You are _all_ needed here.”

Tauriel nodded before heading once more to the outskirts of the Elven camp where Menelcar was waiting for her.

~*~*~*~*~

It was very quiet in the tunnel in which Legolas and Landroval waited. Landroval was now nestled comfortably with Legolas leaning against him. The Elf had made a small fire from bits of twigs and leaves that he had scrounged from the tunnel floor. Legolas’s demeanor remained calm, but inside he was worried about Meneldor and Súlon. He hoped that Tauriel had reached Erebor safely, but even with the report she would deliver, there was more information to be shared. The Prince could feel time slipping away from them and to ease his troubled thoughts, he began to sing softly to Landroval. The great eagle was also tense, no doubt concerned for Meneldor as well, but the Elf’s song soothed them both and Legolas could feel the tension leave Landroval’s body where he leaned against the eagle. After a while, he brought out the second _lembas_ cake in his small pouch, giving half of the way bread to Landroval. They ate quietly.

After more time had passed and no further movement could be discerned outside Legolas stood up, motioning for Landroval to remain in place while he went to inspect the tunnel entrance. Leaving the palantir still wrapped in its black covering beside the eagle, Legolas silently and swiftly made his way to the opening of the tunnel. It was still dark outside, but they had waited for hours and the Elf knew that dawn would soon be approaching. He went back to Landroval, who had already stood up in anticipation of their departure. The eagle was stretching his wings. Legolas left the slow-burning embers of the fire, secured the palantir once more and then leapt onto Landroval’s back. 

“To Gundabad,” he told the eagle in the semi-darkness of the tunnel and then they were off.

~*~*~*~*~

Outside the tunnels, the skies were once again clear. At first, Landroval remained low to the canyon, winding in and out of its passages as he had done before, but when both he and Legolas deemed it safe, the eagle soared up into the heavens. From this great height they were able to scan the land below. They could see the last of the Orc army marching out of Gundabad, a long weaving trail of death and darkness. The war bats were nowhere to be seen. They had flown ahead of the army.

“We must go where we last saw Meneldor and Súlon,” Legolas advised. “To the southeast, away from the canyons.” 

Landroval banked southeast, gliding over the land. 

“I do not think they were captured,” Legolas murmured, though he had nothing but a feeling to go on. “But there is no shelter in this cursed earth. Where could they have hidden?” 

Landroval continued to fly in a high sweeping arc as they surveyed the land below. 

“Do you see that depression in the earth?” Legolas suddenly asked. “It looks like a caved in structure of some sort.” 

Before Landroval could answer, the eagle banked suddenly, dipping down into the cloud cover afforded them. Instantly, Legolas’s senses were on high alert. They were not alone. He leaned closer to Landroval, lessening the friction of the wind currents and aiding the eagle by smoothening out his flight. Landroval accelerated with another burst of speed as Legolas looked behind them. It was difficult to see through the clouds but he did not think that the war bats had returned. Their cries did not fill the air, nor the particular beating of their wings. What was pursuing them was bigger, faster, perhaps more deadly. 

But Landroval was a mighty eagle and with the open sky before them, he was pulling away. A cry came from behind them that had Landroval slowing down. Even Legolas recognized the call. The great eagle doubled backwards and soon they were flying side-by-side with Menelcar and Tauriel. 

Legolas was overjoyed to his friend, but what he called aloud was, “What are you doing here?” 

“Looking for you,” Tauriel called back. “Where is Súlon?” 

“We were separated last night,” Legolas said. “As we escaped Gundabad. We were attacked by war bats. Meneldor has been injured. We’re searching for both of them now.” 

Tauriel’s expression was grim. It was fortunate that she and Menelcar had not run into those same war bats on their way back to Gundabad. 

“We were searching to the southeast of the fortress,” Legolas explained, just as Landroval was taking them back to their previous path, now with Menelcar flying in formation to his right. “It is where we last saw them.” 

“The Orc army is on the move,” Tauriel said. 

“Yes,” Legolas replied. “We saw them as well. There is little time.” He scanned the ground for the depression he had seen before. “There!” he said, pointing at the crater. 

“What is it?” Tauriel asked as the eagles descended. 

“It looks like an underground cave,” Legolas answered. It was very different from the tunnel that he and Landroval had taken shelter in. This cave was a natural formation, but something had happened so that the earth had collapsed in on itself. 

“I see them!” Tauriel exclaimed. 

It was true. Meneldor and Súlon were at the far end of the wide structure, wide enough that both Landroval and Menelcar could land inside it. Meneldor was lying on his side, leaning against the cave wall. He seemed to be asleep but at the sound of his companions landing, the eagle lifted his head. 

“Súlon!” Legolas said, almost leaping off Landroval’s back as soon as the eagle had landed. 

Súlon, who had been crouching beside Meneldor inspecting the eagle’s wound, got up quickly. “My Lord,” he replied, the relief visibly washing over him as he moved towards the Prince. He meant to greet the Prince with a firm warrior’s handshake but Legolas had other ideas, embracing the Elven Captain warmly. 

“Are you hurt?” Legolas asked when he released the other Elf, giving Súlon a quick inspection as he spoke. 

“No, my Lord,” Súlon answered. 

Legolas gave him a reproachful look. “I think it is time you called me ‘Legolas,’” he admonished the Captain. 

Súlon grinned. “Very well,” he agreed. “Legolas,” he added, as though testing the name. Then his smile faded as he gestured behind him. “I am fine, but it is Meneldor who has been injured. I have done what I can for him, but the supplies I brought contained only the most cursory of medicines. I have stanched the bleeding from the wound and bandaged it, but that is all.” 

“Thanks to Bard, I have come prepared,” Tauriel said, giving Súlon a reassuring smile as she passed the two Elves. She went to where Meneldor lay and crouched on the ground to have a look at the wound. Fortunately, whatever had pierced Meneldor’s side had not been poisoned. Súlon had done a good job with what he’d had, but Tauriel had more potent medicine that would speed up the healing process. She was the most skilled in the healing arts among the three Elves. 

As Tauriel set to work treating the wound, Legolas and Súlon fell into a quiet discussion. Menelcar had moved to where Meneldor lay and affectionately rubbed the wounded eagle’s head with his own. Over them all, Landroval stood guard. The underground cavern – which all suspected to be a former dwelling of a family of cave trolls judging by the stench, the bones and other assorted debris left behind – was well concealed on the ground and some distance from the Gundabad fortress. This was fortunate, since the Orc army would have had to diverge from their path to find them. Only a scouting party might have stumbled across them, but Orcs would not think to send a scouting party so near to their own home base. Besides, Bolg and his cohorts had much bigger things to think about than a wounded eagle and its rider. 

When Tauriel was finished and Meneldor was resting comfortably, she joined Legolas and Súlon’s discussion. “Meneldor will be fine,” she reported to the two Elves and to Landroval, who was listening keenly. “He’s weak and lost a fair amount of blood, but there’s been no permanent damage to his wing. He’ll be able to fly again without difficulty, just not any time soon. He needs rest.” 

“I will stay with him,” Súlon said. “He cannot remain here unprotected.” 

“I must return to Erebor,” Legolas stated. “This is what we discovered in the topmost room of the fortress,” he told Tauriel, holding up the covered palantir. “It is a seeing stone.” 

“A powerful weapon,” Tauriel said quietly. “What will you do with it?” 

“I will take it to Gandalf,” Legolas replied. “The grey wizard will know best how to handle its magic. There is more,” he continued. “Last night, Landroval and I took shelter in the canyons adjacent to Gundabad. We flew into what I first believed was a cave system, but it was not. They were tunnels, hewn into the earth by giant worms.” 

“Cold-drakes?” Súlon said in surprise. “I have not heard of them in many centuries.” 

“That is what the Enemy is counting on,” Legolas said. “We must rob them of the element of surprise. We know now how Azog will reach Erebor and how his army has remained out of sight.” 

“Prince Legolas,” Landroval said, speaking up. “I will bear you back to Erebor so that we may arrive before the Orcs armies. Menelcar, I shall send back to my brother in the Misty Mountains. Gwaihir will want to know of the Orc movements for we have been tracking them. My kin will send aid for Meneldor so that we may transport him out of this cursed earth.” 

“I shall stay behind as well,” Tauriel said. “Súlon and I will both look after Meneldor. When the eagles arrive, we can help move him for the journey. Perhaps afterwards, Menelcar may take both Súlon and myself back to Erebor.” Tauriel looked to Landroval for confirmation and the eagle nodded. 

“Then it is settled,” Legolas said. “Súlon, take my bow since yours has been snapped. My quiver, unfortunately, has been spent but you and Tauriel may share her quiver if the need arises.” The Prince handed over his bow. “Look after yourselves,” he told his companions. 

“We won’t do anything you wouldn’t do, Your Highness,” Tauriel said, her eyes sparkling with mirth. She knew full well how crazy some of Legolas’s antics were, just as she knew that all the Prince’s actions were a carefully calculated risk. Súlon grinned as well, the terrifying leap from the Gundabad fortress still fresh in his mind, as he slung Legolas’s bow across his back. 

Legolas shook his head fondly at his old friend. “ _Presta ceredir pîn_ ,” he admonished her affectionately. 

Tauriel’s laugh was bright and startling in the gloom of that land. She smiled at the use of her old childhood nickname, ‘Little Troublemaker.’ 

“I will see you both soon,” Legolas said. 

The two Elven Captains watched as their Prince mounted Landroval once more and with a final wave, the great eagle bore him away.

~*~*~*~*~

Outside the plains of Erebor, Thranduil’s Elven army was arrayed in their battle gear of red and gold, the fine metalwork of their armor dazzling in the morning sun. The Elven army was at parade rest, as were the several hundred men who formed the army that Bard now led. The Elvenking and the Bowman were at the gates of Erebor holding an impromptu audience with the King under the Mountain. Apparently, the little Hobbit had not been very successful in getting Thorin Oakenshield to see reason regarding the approaching Orc armies. Thorin was being most quarrelsome that morning. He refused to acknowledge Bard’s presence at all, and would do nothing but hurl insults at the Elvenking. Thranduil’s patience was already short and when Thorin let loose an arrow at the feet of Thranduil’s magnificent elk, Bard seriously thought that Thranduil would send a hail of arrows right into the rampart as a response. The Elvenking had his men draw their bows, but thankfully, they did not fire.

Then it was Gandalf’s turn to try and reason with Thorin but he had no more success than either Bard or Thranduil, although the wizard at least was not the recipient of any Dwarvish curses. Beside Thorin, the looks on his companions’ faces ranged from solidarity and smugness to deep concern. Balin, the white-haired Dwarf in particular, looked deeply troubled by the developments. But Thorin would hear none of their entreaties. 

“Since he will not respond to reason,” Thranduil told Bard and Gandalf as the three of them conferred in a tight circle. “Then it is time to use our leverage.”

Said leverage came in the form of the Arkenstone and when Bard produced the Heart of the Mountain from his coat pocket, that’s when everything truly spiraled out of control. 

“Thieves!” Kili accused them from the rampart. “How came you by the emblem of our house?” 

“It is a ruse,” Thorin said savagely. “A filthy lie. The Arkenstone is in this mountain! It is a trick!”

Poor Bilbo had chosen that inopportune moment to speak up. Bard could not hear what the Hobbit was saying (he suspected that Thranduil could) but the outcome of his words was plain enough. Whatever anger Thorin had exhibited previously was nothing compared to the rage he held toward Bilbo at that moment. Bard was stunned when the command from Thorin echoed over the surrounding area. 

“Throw him from the rampart!” 

No one from the Dwarven company moved to obey the command. When Thorin grabbed his own nephew to compel him to follow the order, Fili resisted. 

Still in a rage, Thorin cursed and said, “I will do it myself!”

Bard watched in alarm as Thorin grabbed the Hobbit and dragged him to the edge of the rampart. The company sprang into action, immediately trying to stop Thorin from throwing Bilbo over. But it was Gandalf’s intervention that gave the Hobbit a chance to escape. As Thorin held Bilbo over the rampart, Gandalf’s voice rang out clearly, the imperiousness in his command reminding those present of the power of the Maiar. 

“If you don’t like my burglar, please don’t damage him. Return him to me.” 

Thorin looked at the wizard, briefly stunned. 

“You’re not making a splendid figure as King under the Mountain,” Gandalf continued, his voice grim. “Thorin, son of Thrain.”

These cutting words had an effect on Thorin and he loosened his grip on Bilbo. The Hobbit scrambled from underneath Thorin’s grasp as Fili and Bofur quickly came to his aid. 

“Never again will I have dealings with Wizards!” Thorin bellowed. “Or Shire rats!” 

By now, Bilbo with Bofur’s help was scrambling down a rope along the side of the Erebor gate. 

“Are we resolved?” Bard called out. “Will you stand the Dwarf army down and join us in our common fight against the Enemy?”

“I see no common foe!” Thorin replied, rage coloring his voice. “But the one which stands before me! An enemy that has stolen from me, that seeks to take all that I have!” 

Beside Bard, Thranduil let out a long-suffering sigh. “He is well beyond reason,” he commented quietly. “The dragon sickness has consumed him.” 

Bilbo had now joined their little circle, standing beside Gandalf. “It’s too late,” the Hobbit said in despair. He pointed to the hill beyond them. “The Dwarf army is here.”

The three of them turned to look in the direction the Hobbit was pointing, but before they even saw the Dwarves marching over the hill, they heard the sound of their armor and the steady beat of their steps. The army came steadily down the craggy hill, led by Dain Ironfoot on a giant boar. Thranduil immediately sprang into action, calling out a command that had his army turning to face the oncoming threat. Bard had no choice but to follow suit, a ball of dread forming in the pit of his stomach. This was all wrong, all wrong. They should not be fighting each other! 

The two armies were at a stand off. Lord Dain of the Iron Hills stopped his boar on a rocky outcropping, giving him a distinct height advantage as he surveyed the scene before him. His voice was deceptively cheery when he spoke. 

“Good morning!” he called out jovially. “How are we all? I have a wee proposition,” he continued in a friendly manner. “If you wouldn’t mind giving me a few moments of your time?” He paused, certain that he had their complete attention. “Would you consider . . . just sodding off? All of you! Right now!” he bellowed, his anger almost a match for Thorin’s.

The Men of Lake Town took a step backwards, even as the Elves moved forward into a fighting stance. 

“Stand fast!” Bard called out to his people. 

“Come now, Lord Dain,” Gandalf said, stepping forward.

“Gandalf the Grey,” Dain acknowledged and Gandalf bowed formally in return. “Tell this rabble to leave,” he ordered the wizard. “Or I’ll water the ground with their blood!” 

“There is no need for war between Dwarves, Men and Elves,” Gandalf replied forcefully, striding forward with purpose. “A legion of Orcs march on the mountain. We will be attacked on two fronts. Stand your army down.” 

“I will not stand down before any Elf!” Dain replied. “Not least this faithless Woodland sprite!” he added, gesturing towards the Elvenking with his great mallet. “He wishes nothing but ill upon my people.” 

Thranduil bristled. He was reaching his breaking point with these unreasonable, pig-headed Dwarves. 

“If he chooses to stand between me and my kin, I’ll split his pretty head open. See if he’s still smirking then!” Dain declared.

Gandalf could feel the situation slipping from his grasp. What could he do to prevent such a useless war? He bent his head and murmured a quick prayer to the Valar and his prayer was immediately answered. At that moment, when war seemed inevitable, there was a great cry and a fierce wind blew from the beating of enormous wings. Landroval landed on the plain in between the wizard and Lord Dain. 

Gandalf stepped backwards in surprise, while Dain’s mount reared in response to the threat of Landroval. Landroval did indeed pose a threat to the Dwarf Lord, his wings still high and crested as he towered over Lord Dain. 

“Lord Dain of the Iron Hills,” Legolas called out. “I am Legolas of Mirkwood. Will you parley with me?” 

Dain calmed his mount as he eyed the Elven Prince suspiciously. “And why should I parley with you?” he replied. “The son of my enemy?”

“It is my hope,” Legolas said. “That your cousin, Thorin son of Thrain, King under the Mountain, has mentioned me in a favorable light. Thorin Oakenshield knows that, despite the enmity between our races, I bear no ill will toward your people.” 

This, in fact, was true. The missive that Thorin had sent through a raven of Erebor had mentioned Legolas and the news that the Elven Prince had been on his way to Gundabad to scout potential enemy forces. Dain had not expected to see the Prince at Erebor. With a grudging nod, Dain indicated that he would parley with the Prince. 

Legolas took this cue and dismounted gracefully from Landroval. He’d expected the eagle to leave, but Landroval remained where he was, still standing at his full height, wings half spread in both a menacing and protective manner. Legolas looked at the great eagle and Landroval understood the silent communication, folding his wings against his side and not looking quite so intimidating. But there was a glint in the eagle’s eye that told the Dwarf Lord that great pain would be in his near future if any harm should come to the Elven Prince. 

Legolas patted Landroval comfortingly before striding to where Dain still sat on his boar on top of the outcropping. In his right arm, he carried the covered palantir. He stopped beside the boar and spoke in quiet tones to Dain so that no one else near them, not Gandalf or the Dwarf army, could hear his words. 

“Lord Dain,” Legolas began. “I have just returned from Gundabad at this moment and what Gandalf has told you is true. Two Orc armies march on the mountain, one coming from the south led by Azog the Defiler (Dain bristled at the mention of Azog’s name) and the other from the north, led by Bolg, Azog’s spawn. I have seen the troops marching from Gundabad. They left in the early hours of this morning and they will be here within a day.” Legolas paused and when he spoke again, he chose his words carefully. “Your cousin, Thorin, is not well. I fear that his condition has worsened since I departed. He may be your liege, but it is _you_ who command this army. Will you join us in our fight to defend Erebor?”

Dain remained silent. Thorin had written highly of the Elven Prince and though Dain was meeting Legolas for the first time, on some level he understood the unconscious pull the Prince exerted. There was something about his bearing, his nobility and his words that reached the Dwarf Lord. _It is Elvish magic_ , his mind warned him. _Do not fall prey to his spell_. Dain made a disgruntled sound, his natural suspicion of Elves making him unwilling to give in, despite the logic behind the Prince’s words. 

“What proof do you have of this?” he demanded for lack of anything else to say. 

Legolas arched a golden brow, but also nodded deferentially. “Gandalf,” he called, motioning for the wizard to join them. 

Gandalf, who was now standing beside Landroval, walked to where the Elf and the Dwarf were conferring. He overheard Legolas saying to Dain, “I stole this from the Enemy at Gundabad, but it is Gandalf who will know best what to do with this weapon.”

The Elf turned towards Gandalf when the wizard reached them, holding out the round covered object in his hand. Gandalf could feel his skin crawl as he accepted the offering. Already, he knew what it was, its size and shape unmistakable. Without hesitating, the wizard pulled off the black covering. He heard Dain gasp, but his gaze remained fixed on the black, smooth surface of the palantir. He recognized the stone. 

“A lost palantir of Arnor,” the wizard whispered. 

“Gandalf,” Legolas said quietly. “Can you call forth the images of the Orc armies on the move to act as proof of my words?” 

The wizard looked at the Elf with grave eyes. “That is a great risk,” he answered. “We may see through this stone, but in turn the Enemy may see us.” 

“Nay, Master Elf,” Dain interrupted. “Do not use it. I see the wisdom in your words. I will stand the Dwarf army down.” 

Gandalf nodded at Dain approvingly as he covered the stone once more. “You will join us then,” he questioned. “In defense of the mountain?” 

“It is my duty,” Dain answered. “Whether my king wills it or no.” 

“Join us in my father’s tent,” Legolas invited. “There is much to plan. And I have further news,” he added, glancing at Gandalf before he addressed Dain once more. “We will accommodate your soldiers at our camp,” he told the Dwarf Lord. “Your march must have been hard to arrive here so swiftly. There is time to rest and replenish your strength and supplies.” 

“I will meet you at your father’s tent, Master Elf,” Dain said. “But first I must give instructions to my captains.” With a small bow to take his leave of the Prince and the wizard, Dain turned away, calling out a command in Khuzdul for the army to stand at ease. 

“Fortuitous timing,” Gandalf commented to the Prince, as they watched Dain ride away. 

Legolas smiled warmly at him. “Has my father been very difficult?” he inquired. 

“No more than usual,” Gandalf replied, his eyes twinkling. He held up the palantir. “This is quite a prize, Legolas.” 

“I entrust it to you, Mithrandir.”

~*~*~*~*~

Thranduil ran a hand down his elk’s neck, the fur soft to his touch. He had watched the goings-on between his son, the Dwarf Lord and Gandalf with a calculating gaze. Now the little group disbanded. Legolas had obviously succeeded in his task as Dain called out a command for the Dwarf army to stand down. Thranduil could feel his heart swell with pride for his son. The relief he had felt when Landroval had alighted on the battle plain with Legolas on his back, had eclipsed all else. Now Legolas was speaking in quiet tones with Gandalf as they walked towards the Elven army. Gandalf was carrying the object that Legolas had given him under one arm. Thranduil instantly knew that this was the reason that Legolas had stayed behind in Gundabad.

Landroval still stood at attention, his eyes following the Prince’s every move as though he expected further instructions. Gandalf and Legolas parted ways when they reached Landroval, the wizard heading to where the Halfling waited for him. Legolas stopped by the eagle, running his hand along the eagle’s great neck, much like what Thranduil was doing to his own mount, as he spoke to Landroval. The eagle nodded in response, but did not fly away. He was still waiting for the Prince. 

Then Legolas was heading towards him, and though Thranduil was nearly overcome with emotion at the sight of his son well and unharmed after a trying night, he outwardly remained cool and collected, ever the image of the stern and forbidding Woodland King. 

Legolas stopped in front of him, putting a hand to his chest as he saluted his father. “ _Adar_ ,” he said, with a ceremonial bow. 

Thranduil did not return the gesture, instead saying in a haughty tone, “And you claim that I make dramatic entrances.” 

The comment brought a smile to Legolas’s face. “Another skill that I have learned from you,” he replied, his tone light, almost teasing. 

Thranduil let a ghost of a smile curve his lips. “A skill well learned,” he said seriously. 

Legolas beamed at the understated compliment. 

“I am glad to see you well, my son.” 

“As I am you, father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing with canon in this chapter, even more than usual. Orthanc, as you Tolkien fans know, is the palantir used by Saruman in LotR. It was always located in Isengard, where Saruman eventually took up residence. Originally, the palantir that Legolas stole from Gundabad was meant to be one of the lost palantir of Arnor (as Legolas actually tells Súlon in an earlier chapter). But I liked the idea of Legolas stealing Orthanc, bringing it to Gandalf and in turn, Gandalf would bring it to the head of his order - Saruman. It all comes full circle, so that Orthanc would eventually bring Saruman into contact with Sauron and would result in Saruman's corruption and fall. 
> 
> Edit: Special thanks to Phaeton for reminding me about the difference between Orthanc and the Orthanc-stone. I'll make the necessary changes when I upload the next chapter. :)


	17. Chapter 17

Legolas walked among the Elven encampment seeing to the distribution of supplies between the Elves and their new Dwarf allies. As he had promised Lord Dain, the Elves had made room for the Dwarves within their camp. But the Prince was well aware of the distrust between the two armies, of the disdain his own people showed toward the _hadhodrim_ , and of the Dwarves’ barely concealed hostility towards his people. It was an uneasy alliance. 

Legolas was doing his best to alleviate that unease. He stationed the Dwarves closer to the companies of Elves under his command so that he could both keep an eye on them, and act as a mediator should the need arise. He also knew that his troops were loyal and would follow his example. If he showed friendship to the Dwarves, then his soldiers would also do more than tolerate the Dwarves’ presence. It was with this in mind that Legolas accompanied Lord Dain, giving the Dwarf Lord a tour of the encampment, and introducing him to some of the senior Elven Captains. For his part, Dain seemed to understand the reasoning behind Legolas’s actions, and he was much more reasonable and open-minded around the Prince than he had been with Thranduil or even Gandalf. 

When all was settled with the Dwarven army, Legolas said, “Come Lord Dain, my father awaits us in his tent.”

For the third time in two days, an impromptu war council was held in the Elvenking’s battlefield tent, this time in the company of the King, his son, a wizard, a halfling from the Shire, a Lord of Men and now a Lord of Dwarves. On the long table was unfolded a map of Middle-earth, the focus of which was the Lonely Mountain. 

“Bolg attacks from the north,” Gandalf said, his finger trailing over the Misty Mountains and the fell kingdom of Angmar beyond.

“Bolg has a fleet of war bats,” Legolas supplied. “He has sent them ahead of his troops. The bats are the reason I was detained for so long at Gundabad, and why Súlon and Tauriel remained behind with our injured companion.” 

“Then the darkness of the skies will mark Bolg’s arrival,” Gandalf said seriously. “But what of Azog? If Bolg’s army has already left Gundabad and he is in league with his father, then Azog must have been on the march from Dol Guldur days ago. It would be their intention to arrive at Erebor at the same time. Why has there been no sign of Azog’s legions?”

Legolas stepped forward and pointed to the low running hills and rocky caverns that bordered the southeastern part of the desolate plains of Erebor. 

“This is where Azog will appear,” he stated. 

“How do you know this?” Thranduil asked.

“Because in Gundabad, Landroval and I saw the giant tunnels hewn into the earth by the cold-drakes,” Legolas explained. “Indeed, we unknowingly flew into one of them to hide from the war bats. The orcs have been breeding the cold-drakes. They are using them to tunnel underground to transport supplies, troops and weapons of war. It is the only way the Enemy could have evaded our sight.” 

Thranduil’s look was sharp and approving. “You have done well, Legolas.” 

Legolas inclined his head in acknowledgement of his father’s praise. The Elvenking’s public approval was a rare occurrence.

“Since these Orc armies work in collusion,” Thranduil continued, “and Bolg may arrive as early as this afternoon, then we should also expect Azog to descend on Erebor today, likely before his son. The mountain must be protected on all fronts.” 

“Azog will attack Erebor head-on,” Gandalf declared. “The southern plains outside the gates of Erebor will be the bloodiest battleground.” 

“True,” Thranduil agreed. “We will station most of our forces there. But we cannot ignore Bolg’s northern approach.” 

“My companies will guard the northern pass,” Legolas answered, “the area that is known as Ravenhill. We will lie in wait and ambush Bolg’s forces when they arrive.”

“I will send a company of Dwarves with you,” Dain told the Prince. “My people know Ravenhill. They can show you where best to hide in the old watchtower, and the surrounding area. They will provide you with a strategic advantage, and they will be under your command.” 

“My thanks, Lord Dain,” Legolas said graciously. “I am glad that our races may set aside our differences in this time of need.” 

“It is a very great need,” Dain agreed gruffly. “I, too, am glad that the Elves are here to defend Erebor.” Dain nodded at the Elven Prince, before turning to Thranduil. “My people have not forgotten old grievances,” he told the Elvenking. “But there is no place for them when death descends upon us.” He paused. “And perhaps,” he continued, holding Thranduil’s gaze. “Perhaps what happens today may be the start of amends.” 

“Perhaps,” Thranduil agreed, his voice as cold as steel. “If we survive.”

The Elvenking’s words brought a chill to the bones of those in the tent. They all understood how grossly outnumbered they were, even with the combined might of the Elf and Dwarf armies. The people of Lake Town only numbered several hundred survivors; most of them untrained and ill-prepared to fight a war. The town’s army was largely composed of militia troops, though the soldiers under the former Master’s command now supported Bard. By contrast, the goblins and orcs bearing down on them from the Misty Mountains and the cesspits of the Dol Guldur had been bred for war. 

“There is still the matter of Dale,” Gandalf stated, drawing the group’s attention to the map once more. 

“What of it?” Bard asked.

“It is likely,” Thranduil continued, divining Gandalf’s intention. “That Azog will attempt to cut us off from the city and sack what is left of Dale. He knows it will be difficult for our forces to defend both the mountain and the city. He wishes us to expend our forces on Dale, otherwise to sacrifice it for the sake of Erebor.” 

“That is unacceptable,” Bard said forcefully. “My people are at Dale, and we have already lost much at the hands of Smaug. Those who cannot bear arms – women, children, and the elderly – will take refuge in the city.” 

“Then they should take shelter in the parts of the city that may be fortified,” Gandalf advised. 

“I will see to that,” Bard said. “My men will guard the southwestern face of the mountain,” he continued. “We will protect the passage from Dale to Erebor, and defend the city if we must.” 

“I can spare some of my troops to aid you,” Thranduil offered. 

Bard looked at the Elvenking in surprise, his expression quickly turning to one of gratitude. “Thank you, my Lord,” he answered sincerely. 

“Then it is settled,” Gandalf stated. “The northern pass marked by the Ravenhill watchtower will be manned by Legolas’s forces and a company of Dwarves. Bard’s men with the backing of Elvish reinforcements will guard the southwestern face of the mountain that leads to Dale. The main Dwarf army and the bulk of the Elven army will be stationed in the valley before the gates of Erebor, where we anticipate Azog will make a heavy frontal assault.” Gandalf paused and looked around the long table. “Are we in agreement?” he asked the others. 

“We are,” Dain declared, punctuating his statement with a heavy fist on the oak table. 

“Good,” Gandalf returned. “Then we must mobilize our forces. There is little time to prepare. Azog and Bolg will be here in a matter of hours.”

With these words, the leaders of the three armies, representative of the free races of Middle-earth disbanded, each with a set of tasks to perform. Legolas lead the companies under his command, almost one-third of the Elven army, and a company of Dwarves to the pass at Ravenhill. The trek was hard as the watchtower was high on the northern slope of the mountain. The wind was biting cold, and they were met by frost and ice. Since Smaug had taken up residence in the mountain, Ravenhill had become a ruin of its once glorious days. Its view, however, remained magnificent and from the watchtower and its environs, there was a clear view of the valley below, all the way across the plains to the city of Dale. 

Most of the watchtower was a crumbling ruin. After a quick inspection, Legolas deemed it unsafe for the troops to be stationed in its concealing darkness. Even the light tread of Elven steps might send the rest of the watchtower crumbling to the ground. He fell back to the narrow pass between Ravenhill and the Lonely Mountain. Here, he stationed the Dwarves who would easily remain concealed in the rocky passes below. The Elven ground forces joined the Dwarves, but the archers Legolas placed on the mountainside, arranging them in multi-tiered rows to protect the ground troops. Although the Elves and the Dwarves would be far outnumbered, Bolg’s forces would be funneled through the narrow pass, thinning out their numbers. It would give the Elves and the Dwarves a chance to pick off their prey. 

When all was settled, Legolas gave further instructions to his most senior lieutenant, and then made his way back down the pass to the southern face of the mountain. He was only mildly surprised to find Dain Ironfoot at the base of the passageway leading to Ravenhill. 

“Lord Dain,” Legolas greeted the Dwarf Lord as he walked toward him. “Is all well?” 

Dain nodded. “Ironfoot are fierce warriors,” he told the Prince. “And we are eager to spill orcish blood.” 

“I have heard that one Ironfoot is the equal of five armed men,” Legolas said, coming to stand before the dwarf. 

“And you have heard justly, Master Elf,” Dain replied. He gestured behind Legolas. “And is all well here?” he inquired in return. 

“We are prepared,” Legolas replied. “Let Bolg and his legions come forth.” 

“You speak as if you know that Orc filth,” Dain observed. 

“Bolg and I have crossed paths before,” Legolas said, the distaste evident in his voice. “We have unfinished business.” 

“Then may your paths cross again,” Dain said with a dark smile. 

“That too is my desire,” Legolas agreed. He cocked his head to the right and eyed the Dwarf Lord thoughtfully. “Is there something I may help you with, Lord Dain?” he asked after a moment. He got the distinct sense that the dwarf had been waiting for him. 

“I wish to speak with Thorin,” Dain said bluntly. “He should know of our plans. More than that, he should be leading this army. We are stronger behind our king.” 

Privately Legolas agreed, but he kept silent. He could tell that there was more Dain wanted to say. 

Now it was the Dwarf’s turn to eye the Prince thoughtfully. “Thorin did indeed speak very highly of you in his missive,” Dain began again. “And I gather that you have had a positive influence on him in his current . . . state.” 

Legolas inwardly smiled. He was impressed with Dain’s tact, a trait he had not thought the Dwarf Lord possessed after the insults Dain had hurled on the battlefield not too long ago. “Thorin has been amenable to my presence,” he agreed. 

“It is a strange friendship that you have with my cousin,” Dain continued, a little wonderingly. “Made more remarkable given the circumstances of Thorin’s journey. Few of my kin would approve of your friendship, and yet I begin to understand how it came to be.” He paused and looked the Prince squarely in the eye. “Will you accompany me to Erebor?” 

Legolas did not hesitate. “It would be my pleasure,” he replied.

~*~*~*~*~

Soon the Lord of the Iron Hills and the Prince of the Woodland Realm were standing in front of the massive, barred gate of Erebor.

“I have come to speak with my cousin, Thorin son of Thrain, King under the Mountain,” Dain called out to the dwarves who were standing lookout at the top of the rampart. 

“And you are most welcome to!” Dwalin called back.

A moment later, a rope ladder was tossed over the rampart, the end of the ladder dangling in front of the Dwarf Lord and the Elven Prince. Legolas gestured that Dain should climb first and so the Dwarf did with the Prince following behind him. When they reached the top, Dain was immediately crushed in a bear hug by Dwalin, and the two warriors exchanged a few words in their language. Ori and Nori, who were also on the rampart both bowed respectfully to the Lord of the Iron Hills. As Legolas climbed over the top of the rampart, he was a little surprised to see that Dwalin had turned to him. He had grown used to either Dwalin’s hostility or his indifference. Now he thought Dwalin would lean towards the former. Thorin’s lieutenant looked at him with a severe expression. 

“I am not certain if Thorin will want to see _you_ ,” Dwalin said harshly. 

“Has he rescinded my open invitation to Erebor?” Legolas asked in return. 

“No, but –” Dwalin stopped abruptly. He grunted. “Much has changed since you were last here.” 

Legolas nodded slowly. He knew what Dwalin was referring to. He had heard two versions of Bard’s audience with Thorin the day before – a sedate version from the man himself, and a much more colorful one from Bilbo. 

“I shall take my chances,” he told Dwalin. 

“Then you’d best be prepared to defend yourself,” Dwalin warned him darkly. “Prince or no, I’ll not be responsible for your head.”

~*~*~*~*~

Dwalin led the two visitors to the main entrance hall where more of Thorin’s company came out to meet them. Knowing he was the outsider, Legolas stayed a little behind Dain and Dwalin. Dain was greeted warmly by all in the company, especially by Thorin’s nephews, Fili and Kili. As Legolas watched this reunion, Balin appeared by his side.

“Glad to see you back, laddie,” the wise counselor said. 

Legolas glanced down at the older dwarf. “Dwalin hinted that Thorin would not be so pleased to see me,” he said. 

Balin sighed heavily. “Aye,” he agreed, shaking his head. “He’s much worse now than when you last saw him. Still . . .” he trailed off, glancing up at Legolas. “Perhaps you may still get through to him.” 

“Perhaps,” Legolas said, giving the dwarf a soft smile. 

“Tell me,” Balin continued, his demeanor changing. “What is happening outside?” 

“We are preparing for war.” 

It was Dain who answered the question, walking over to join Legolas and Balin. 

“The mountain will be attacked on two fronts,” Legolas explained, as the group convened around them. “Azog comes from the north, using cold-drakes to tunnel through the earth; while Bolg brings his forces from the south.” 

“Two orc armies?” Kili said in disbelief. 

“Yes,” Legolas replied. 

“That is why we’ve come,” Dain said sternly. “To ask the King under the Mountain to lead _his_ army.” 

“You’ll have to talk some sense into him first,” Dwalin reminded them. 

“And that’s why _he_ is here,” Dain added, somewhat rudely pointing at Legolas. 

For a moment, Legolas remembered days in his father’s court when all attention had been focused on him. He’d learned to live with that scrutiny, whether it was out of respect, fear, love, awe or intimidation. The eyes of Thorin’s company were on him now and the mask of the cool Elven Prince did not fail him.

~*~*~*~*~

Thorin had lost all track of time. Since throwing that cursed man out of Erebor, he had wandered aimlessly amongst the vast dragon horde. He had not slept; he had not eaten. No one had visited him, but he could feel whispered looks from afar. Voices. There were so many voices in his head. Insidious voices. His company was turning on him they said. Thorin was certain of this. They would all turn on him, just as Bilbo had done. There was no one he could trust. No one. But it did not matter. What need did he have of their company when he possessed all this gold, this wealth beyond measure? Yet for all that was now stored in his horde, it was not enough. It would never _be_ enough. Not when the Arkenstone had been stolen from him, not when Legolas was still out in the wider world.

Suddenly, the Elven Prince was there in all his ethereal beauty. Others were with him, talking to him in loud voices, but Thorin only had eyes for the Prince. He walked towards Legolas, instinctively drawing his sword. He would cut down whoever stood in his way. Nothing would come between him and his coveted prize.

~*~*~*~*~

“Thorin,” Dain said, his patience wearing thin. His cousin had not even acknowledged his presence. He wasn’t even sure if Thorin realized he was there. “Thorin!” he said more sharply, his voice raised. “Do ye understand what I’m saying?” he almost yelled. “There are two orc armies marching on the mountain at this moment. Your people need you!”

Thorin was walking straight toward Dain, his gait determined but he didn’t seem to see Dain at all. When Thorin drew his sword without breaking his stride, Dain began to grow alarmed. Instantly, his hand was on the throat of his axe handle, but he didn’t brandish it just yet. 

“Thorin,” he said again, his voice taking on a pleading tone. Dain knew that the Prince stood a little way behind him and beside the Prince was Dwalin, who had escorted them all the way to the dragon hoard. The rest of the company had remained behind. 

“Lord Dain.” Legolas’s voice was firm. “It’s all right.” 

Dain could see nothing ‘all right’ with the situation at all. Thorin was much worse than he had imagined. The dragon sickness had overcome him completely. It was plain to see in every line in Thorin’s face, in every action, in the very hollowness of his cousin’s gaze.

Still, Dain heeded the Elf’s words and stood aside, letting Thorin pass. Thorin, still seemingly oblivious to his presence strode by him and continued to walk toward the Elf, his sword held out in front of him. Legolas didn’t flinch when the tip of Thorin’s blade landed at his throat. Beside him, Dwalin’s hand was also on the hilt of his sword. Despite what he’d told the Elf upon first meeting him at the rampart, he seemed quite ready to defend Legolas’s life. Legolas turned his head slightly, just enough so that he could catch Dwalin’s troubled gaze. Silently, he signaled the Dwarf through his eyes. Dwalin understood the message, for he dropped his hand from the hilt of his sword. 

“Leave us.” 

Thorin’s command was low and cutting. Dain had already turned around and was gauging the Prince’s calm and non-threatening demeanor. He motioned to Dwalin to do as Thorin bid. 

“Perhaps you’ll be in a more agreeable mood later, cousin,” Dain addressed Thorin as he walked by the King and the Prince, but his eyes remained steadfastly on Legolas. The faintest nod from the Elf assured Dain that the Prince would be – as he had put it – ‘all right.’

When they were finally alone, Thorin eased his grip slightly on his sword, but the tip remained poised at Legolas’s throat. 

“This was not the greeting I had hoped for,” Legolas said quietly. 

“And what greeting did you expect, you deceitful woodland sprite?” 

Legolas’s eyes flashed with a cold, blue fire, and his voice had a harder edge when he spoke. “In what way have I deceived you, King under the Mountain?” 

“You led me to believe that you have feelings for me. That you were _courting_ me.”

“What would lead you to think otherwise?” 

“You sent your lover to plead his case for the rabble of Lake Town after you had softened me with sweet words and promises.” 

“Your memory fails you, King under the Mountain,” Legolas replied, his voice cool. “It was _you_ who sent for Bard, just as _you_ had agreed to settle with the town.” 

Thorin was not interested in Legolas’s justification. The only thing he cared about was the one thing the Elf had not addressed. 

“Do you deny that Bard is your lover?” 

Legolas held the Dwarf’s gaze, the moment stretching out between them. He knew that they had reached Thorin’s breaking point. Whatever he said next, he would have to defend himself. 

“I deny nothing.”

No sooner had Legolas spoken those words than the Elf ducked. Thorin had unintentionally given him the briefest of reprieves as he’d lifted the sword to deal a killing blow. Legolas’s mind chilled at the realization that in this state, Thorin would not hesitate to kill him. As he ducked and spun out of the way, he simultaneously unsheathed Orcrist. When he had regained his footing, he was standing opposite Thorin, his blade drawn and ready to fight. The Dwarf turned around to face him. 

“So,” Thorin said slowly. “It has come to this.” 

“I do not want to fight you,” Legolas said steadily. 

“That no longer matters,” Thorin answered and then he lunged forward. 

Thorin’s attack was ferocious and Legolas immediately found himself on the defensive. His heart ached at the cause of this fight, but he could not afford to lower his guard. Thorin was single-minded in his attack as he continually pushed Legolas backwards. They were fighting in the narrow lane afforded between two high piles of gold. The clash of their swords reverberated loudly in the stillness of the enormous cavern. When Thorin at last paused in his onslaught, Legolas took the opportunity to gain some ground. This was the first time he’d actually seen Thorin fight – staving off orcs while being stuck in an empty wine barrel flowing down river hardly counted – and he admired the Dwarf’s skills. They were well matched in swordplay. He wondered if Thorin was always this aggressive (he suspected it) or whether the dragon sickness made him so. In any case, the dragon sickness was also making Thorin careless, too blinded by greed and desire. Legolas used this to his advantage. He would always be quicker than the Dwarf, and after letting Thorin believe that he had gained the upper hand, the Prince disarmed the King under the Mountain until it was Orcrist’s tip that now rested against Thorin’s exposed throat. 

Thorin was breathing heavily from the exertion, as though he had put all his energy into the fight and Legolas wondered when the Dwarf had last eaten. It must have been over a day. By contrast, he was hardly winded. He had to save his energy for the battle to come. 

“Finish it!” Thorin taunted, stepping into Legolas’s blade. But Legolas had anticipated the action, stepping backwards as Thorin stepped forwards so that Orcrist remained at the same distance between them, still poised at the Dwarf’s throat. 

“Are you too cowardly to do what must be done?” Thorin sneered. 

“This is not cowardice,” Legolas hissed back. “You are not yourself.” 

“And what will you do about that?” 

“This,” Legolas answered.

To Thorin’s utter amazement Legolas removed Orcrist from his throat, letting the Elvish blade clatter to the floor. They stood facing each other, unmoving and silent. Legolas was still armed with his bow and quiver, plus the two long knives that were perpetually strapped to his back. Thorin knew the Elf was far from defenseless. He’d witnessed Legolas’s speed with both bow and blade firsthand. He knew the Prince could cut him down in an instant. But his mind was so clouded, the voices so incessant. _Take him, take him_ , they whispered and chanted in his ear. Thorin would do anything to silence their taunting, and so he lunged forward again. Whether Legolas had anticipated his action he could not tell, but the Elf didn’t resist him and together they fell onto the pile of gold behind the Prince. 

Thorin was gripping Legolas’s jerkin tightly with both his fists, as thought he meant to haul the Elf to his feet. But they stayed in that position with Thorin on top of the Elf, his face scant inches from the Prince. He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply. Legolas still smelled of the woods, vibrant and alive. It was so different from Erebor, from the decay and the disuse of the Dwarf city, from the stench that Smaug had left behind. When Thorin opened his eyes again some of the fog had cleared from his mind, and the drumbeat of those awful voices wasn’t pounding as incessantly against his skull. He was greeted by the cerulean orbs of the Prince, the Elf’s gaze watching him ever so carefully. Thorin could no longer stand it. Still gripping the Prince tightly by his jerkin, Thorin leaned down and kissed him. 

The kiss was possessive and it stoked the fire that had started to dim in the Dwarf. Hungrily, he devoured the Elf’s mouth. Once more, Legolas did not resist him but nor was he a passive recipient of Thorin’s bruising kiss. Soon the two of them were engaged in a different kind of duel, one of tongue and teeth and desperate roaming hands. The Elf was wearing too many clothes, and there were too many laces to untie. Thorin was on the verge of attempting to rip the blasted jerkin (an impossible task given the fine Elven craftsmanship and durable material), when Legolas suddenly put a firm hand on his chest and pulled away. Thorin leaned in again, but Legolas sat up more fully and kept the Dwarf at bay. 

“No,” the Prince said forcefully. “Not like this.” 

Shocked, Thorin sat back now straddling the Elf’s lap. The Prince was flushed, his lips slightly swollen, his eyes bright and half-accusing in the torch lit cavern. 

“I am not some bauble that you can keep in your hoard.” 

The Prince’s harsh words cut through the remainder of the fog in Thorin’s mind, and for the first time the Dwarf saw the situation for what it was. He was shocked and horrified by his behavior. Had he really tried to kill the Woodland Prince? And now he was assaulting him on the cavern floor. 

“No,” Thorin said, his voice unsteady. “You are not some bauble to be kept. Yet you shine brighter and are more precious than all the jewels in Erebor.” 

Thorin could see the relief wash over the Elf’s face. Then Legolas cupped the Dwarf’s face in his hands as he leaned in and kissed him, tenderly and full of promise. The kiss deepened, but there was no hint of desperation or possessiveness. Thorin allowed himself to fall into the kiss, to be led by the Elf. When they broke for breath, Legolas’s right hand slid down Thorin’s face until it rested against the back of Thorin’s neck. 

“Thorin,” Legolas said, leaning his forehead against the Dwarf’s. “You must overcome this sickness. Erebor is about to be besieged. Your people need you. _I_ need you.”

Thorin shook his head slightly. “I don’t know if I can,” he admitted. “I am drowning in this place, Legolas. It is only your presence that keeps my head above water.” 

“My presence is but a temporary balm,” the Elf countered gently. “Only you can defeat this illness. I have faith,” he said, holding the Dwarf’s gaze. “That you will succeed.” 

Thorin was about to say more, but a sudden tremor stopped him. The earth shook for several long moments and then stopped. Then there was another tremor and the action repeated itself – the shaking, followed by the stillness. When it happened a third time, Thorin met the Elf’s grim expression. 

“What is that?” he asked. 

“Azog is here.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story through my long hiatus. I'm behind in replying to comments, but all the encouragement that's been sent my way has been invaluable. Truly. Thank you. 
> 
> After two years, I've found my way back and will wrap up this fic in (hopefully) three chapters. The upcoming battle follows the Extended Edition of the film. And yes, I will warn for canonical character death.

Legolas and Thorin both scrambled to their feet, with Thorin holding out his hand to pull the Elf up. They rushed out of the treasure hoard, running up the vast steps of the cavernous hall. In the hallway leading to the hoard, they met Dwalin who was running back to get them. 

“Thorin!” the Lieutenant called. “Erebor is under attack!” 

“How many cold drakes?” Legolas asked.

“Three,” Dwalin answered, for the first time giving the Prince his full attention. “They tunneled from the base of the hills on the southeastern side of the valley.” 

“As we predicted,” Legolas murmured. 

“The Orcs pouring forth from those tunnels are legion,” Dwalin continued. “Our forces are grossly outnumbered.” 

“More for us to kill then,” Legolas said, giving Dwalin a dark smile, one which the Dwarf lieutenant returned. “Come,” Legolas said, turning to Thorin. “Our people need us.” 

“Dain has already departed,” Dwalin told the Prince as he fell into step beside the Elf. They walked with quick, purposeful steps and Dwalin listened closely as Legolas filled him in on the plans of the three armies.

Thorin trailed behind them, the urgency of the situation fading the closer that they got to the main entrance hall where the rest of the Company waited. He could feel the pull of the hoard once more clouding his mind. The power of the gold had been made even more potent by the long years that Smaug had brooded over it. The lust for it was seizing the King under the Mountain even stronger than before. All Thorin could see was the Elf’s pale golden hair as the Prince walked in front of him, the fine strands like spun silk. _The Elf belongs with me_ , Thorin thought, _away from the bloodshed of battle. The Elf belongs with me in Erebor, where it is safe_.

The Company was standing at attention when the three of them arrived, dressed in the regal Dwarf armor of Erebor and ready to join the fight. Legolas looked up and saw that Landroval had alighted on the main rampart and was waiting for him. He was about to go to the eagle when a hand grasped his. He turned. Thorin was holding his hand tightly. 

“Stay,” Thorin commanded. 

The Elf looked at him in shock. “I cannot,” he replied. 

“Stay with me,” Thorin repeated. “Erebor can be fortified. There are holds upon holds here. It is safe.”

“No, Thorin,” Legolas said, stepping towards the Dwarf. He was aware of the Company watching them and listening to his words. “No place is safe if those Orcs overrun the Lonely Mountain. The North will fall. My father’s kingdom will be next. The Enemy will sweep southwards, taking all the lands in their path until they reach Gondor. By then it will be too late, and the White City, too, will fall. Erebor is the gateway. We must stop the Enemy here.” 

Thorin listened to the Elf’s words but he could not comprehend them. He was more focused on the Prince’s voice, the softness of his hand and the smooth callus that had formed where the Elf drew his bow. 

“Come,” Legolas was saying, gently pulling Thorin behind him. “Come see what is happening beyond your walls.”

Thorin allowed himself to be lead by the Elf and the Company made way for them. They climbed the steps leading to the rampart. Landroval beat his wings once, eager to be off. Legolas held up a placating hand to ask the eagle for patience. Landroval acquiesced, cocking his head as he waited for the Prince, watching both the Elf and the Dwarf-King closely.

Thorin’s gaze swept over the vast valley and plains that had marked the desolation of Smaug. Now the land was filled with troops. The red and gold of the Woodland Realm’s Elven armor blazed in the sunlight as the Elves marched to meet the Orc host head on. The Ironfoot cavalry charged before them, followed by the Dwarf ground troops. Thorin could see his cousin Dain leading the charge on his stout hearted boar, while the rams of the cavalry kept their heads low to barrel through the Orc host. When the Orcs were within range, a hail of Elven arrows shot into the sky, cutting down the first few rows of advancing Orcs. A second hail of arrows quickly followed. It was on the third burst of arrows that the Dwarf cavalry crashed into the main body of Azog’s army and then the ground fighting began in earnest. The Dwarf war machines, massive chariots that carried four riders, one to steer the rams and three to handle the weaponry, fired iron bolts into the Enemy, while the curved blades at the sides of the chariots’ wheels cut down the legs of their foes.

Thorin watched all this unfold and felt the distance from it keenly. The battle was an abstraction to him. He had no part in it, and wished no part in it. The lives on the battlefield did not matter, not when the treasure hoard of Thror was behind him, not when the Elven Prince was by his side.

Legolas may indeed have been by Thorin’s side, but his thoughts were far from Thorin’s own. His keen gaze swept over the battlefield plain looking for only one being – Azog the Defiler. The Pale Orc was not among his army. _He must be directing the horde from somewhere else_ , the Elf thought. But where?

Suddenly, the deep sounds of war horns cleaved the air. Legolas sought the direction of the sound, but it seemed to reverberate around the mountain. He could not find the source of the sound (though he suspected he knew who had caused it). Its meaning, however, was clear enough as the war beasts of the Enemy strode forth. They entered the fray, swinging giant mallets and hammers. They were guided by cruel masters who sat on their backs and steered the massive creatures with tortuous chains often directly plunged into the creature’s blind eyes or along the temples of their heads. Landroval gave his own impatient cry in response to the war horns and Legolas nodded at the eagle. 

“Thorin,” he said, turning to the Dwarf. “I must go.” 

“No,” Thorin replied, with a shake of his head. He was still gripping the Elf’s hand tightly. “You would abandon me now?” he accused the Prince.

“Would you abandon your own people?” Legolas shot back, his voice laced with anger and impatience. He had hoped that the sight of the battle would have been enough to bring Thorin to his senses, but he had been mistaken. The dragon sickness had taken too deep a hold. For the first time, Legolas was truly afraid that Thorin would not be able to overcome it, that the Dwarf Lord would succumb to the same madness that his grandfather had and be lost. 

Thorin looked back at Legolas coldly, releasing the Prince’s hand abruptly. Behind him, the Company had also gathered on the rampart to watch the battle below. Some of their faces were filled with dismay and anxiety, while others like Dwalin, burned with a fierce determination. Legolas knew that all of them were eager and ready to join the battle in defense of their great city. His blue gaze met the worried eyes of the white-haired councilor. Legolas shook his head slightly, almost apologetically, and Balin immediately understood the Elf’s meaning. His heart sank.

“Go then,” Thorin said, his voice drawing Legolas’s attention back to him. “Join your Elven army.” The Dwarf’s voice was filled with derision. 

Legolas almost stepped back, shocked by the loathing that he could feel emanating from the Dwarf-King like a physical force. Thorin was beyond his help. 

“I am needed,” Legolas told him. “As are you, King under the Mountain.” He leaned closer to the Dwarf, dropping his voice so that the others would not hear his words. “You can still defeat this, Thorin,” he said. “You are not your grandfather.”

With these parting words, Legolas turned and mounted Landroval. The eagle cried once and then took off, taking the Prince to join the battle that raged below.

Thorin watched Legolas fly away and felt his heart harden into stone. The Elf had abandoned him. Eventually, they would all abandon him or betray him as Bilbo had done. Those dearest to him had turned away. No one could be trusted. Everyone was false. All that was pure and true was the gold in Thror’s great hoard. Gold would never leave him or betray him. The treasure was all that he needed.

Thorin clasped his hands behind his back as he turned away from the sight of the battle. Loud voices surrounded him and there were cries about going over the wall from his Company, save for Balin and Dwalin who watched him with grim countenances. 

“Stand down!” he said harshly, as he walked by the group, heading for the steps leading down from the rampart. 

Abruptly, the cheering ceased. Confusion marred the faces of his kinsmen. 

“Uncle!” Kili immediately protested.

“Stand down!” Thorin repeated again, his voice colder and harsher than before. “That is not our fight.” 

“Not our fight!” Kili burst out. “How can you say that? Everything that is happening is because of us!” 

But it was too late. Thorin had already climbed down the steps into the main hall and was headed back to the treasure hoard. He did not look behind him once.

~*~*~*~*~

Outside Landroval swept over the battlegrounds, while Legolas searched in vain for Azog. The Pale Orc was definitely not among his army. He caught sight of his father on his magnificent elk, slashing with ease through the Orcs that foolishly attempted to surround him. Thranduil’s royal guard was near him, fighting in a tight formation to protect their king if need be. Legolas was not worried about his father. Thranduil was a great Elf Lord who had fought in the wars of the northern kingdom of Angmar in another age. Despite the sentiment that he’d expressed in the battlefield tent, Legolas knew that his father would survive this battle as well. If the Elvenking were to fall, it would be in his own kingdom, in the defense of his people, not in front of some desolate plain in front of a mountain.

As Legolas surveyed the scene below, he zeroed in on the giant war beasts of the Enemy; among them were war trolls, deformed and mutilated so that they could be controlled and were immune to the effects of the sun. They were wreaking the most havoc, smashing through the Elf and Dwarf lines. They were also targeting the Dwarf’s war machines, which, thus far, had managed to cleanly cut through the Orc soldiers. Calling a command to Landroval, the eagle flew lower to the battlefield, near enough to one of the war trolls so that Legolas could leap onto the creature’s back, dispatching its rider with a clean slice from Orcrist’s blade and then taking the reins of the creature himself. He turned it toward the Orc troops and the war troll began smashing through the Orc horde with its mallet. Once the other riders of the war trolls were aware of what Legolas had done, they turned their sights to the enemy among them. Legolas fought the war trolls, but when his own beast was too badly wounded, he put it out of its misery with an arrow to its head and leaped onto the back of another war troll.

All the while, Landroval patrolled the skies. Before the battle had begun, the great eagle had allowed the Elven Prince to put a seeing spell on him. It was the same spell that Thranduil used on his winged messengers and spies, the spell that had allowed the Elvenking to witness the destruction of Lake-town through a wren’s eyes. Now this spell afforded Legolas a bird’s eye view of the battle, keeping him up to date on the movements of the Orc forces. He watched the battle in his mind’s eye while he continued to fight in the thick of it, and knew that Dwalin’s assessment – that their forces were grossly outnumbered – had been an understatement. No matter how stout hearted the Dwarves, how skillful and valiant the Elves, how courageous and determined the ragtag army of Lake-town, they would be overwhelmed by sheer number. As the battle raged on, Legolas wondered desperately how they could change the tide.

The tide did change, but for the worse. The Orc war horns once more signaled an instruction to the horde. Through Landroval’s vision, Legolas saw the Orc army divide in two. Half continued their onslaught of Erebor, while the other half moved towards the ruined city of Dale. Just as Gandalf had predicted, Azog would attempt to divide their forces. Despite their plans, the Pale Orc knew that they did not have the strength in numbers to defend two fronts. Legolas cut his way closer to the gates of Erebor where he could see his father on his elk having a quick conference with Dain and Gandalf. 

“Azog makes for Dale!” he called out when he was near them.

Gandalf shook his head, his long beard smattered with black Orcish blood. “Even with the preparations we have made, Bard cannot hold that city alone,” he said. 

“I will go to him then,” Thranduil stated, surprising all present. “We will make our last stand at Dale,” he continued, referring to the Elven army. The Elvenking looked first to Gandalf and then to Dain.

Gandalf nodded, his expression grave. Dain also acquiesced. He knew of the long friendship between the Elves and the Men of Lake-town. He did not begrudge the Elvenking for coming to the aid of his long-time allies. 

“I will release my troops,” Legolas stated in the sudden stillness that had fallen among the members of the impromptu War Council. 

Although the clash of weapons surrounded them, and the air was foul with the stench of death, the council stood removed from the battle, secure enough for the moment within their own lines. 

“And what of Bolg?” Dain questioned, looking at the Prince. 

“What does it matter if Bolg sweeps in from the north to finish us off if Erebor has already fallen?” Legolas asked in return. 

Dain nodded, his expression grim. All knew that they were at the losing end of the battle.

“It is settled then,” Gandalf said. “May Eru be with us all.”

With Gandalf’s benediction the council departed, each prepared to make their last stand. Legolas called to Landroval and the eagle swept down, low enough for the Elf to leap onto his back. As Landroval bore him to Ravenhill, Legolas saw the Elven lines leaving the Long Valley, fighting their way through the Orcs as they made for Dale. Already, Legolas had seen through Landroval’s sight that the war beasts of Azog’s army had hurled giant boulders from slings mounted on their backs and easily broken through the walls of Dale. The Orcs were spilling into the streets and more legions were yet headed for the ruined city. Thranduil’s troops were heading for the main bridge that lead into the city where Bard and his army awaited.

Legolas left Dale behind him as he neared the Ravenhill watchtower. Once more Landroval flew close to the ground so that Legolas could easily alight where the Dwarf company under his command waited in ambush. The Dwarf Captain immediately approached the Prince. 

“I release you from your service,” Legolas told him. “Go aid Lord Dain. They are besieged at the main gate.” 

The Captain nodded, gratefulness flooding his features as he called out a quick command to his company. The Dwarves were instantly on their feet, following their Captain down the narrow pass and marching to meet the Orc host in the Long Valley. Legolas turned, knowing that his own Elven commanders had approached him and were awaiting instructions. He spoke to them in their tongue.

“Leave a dozen archers here,” he said. “Perhaps we may still slow Bolg’s arrival with our bows. The rest of the soldiers will go to Dale. My father is making our last stand there. We will join him.” 

“Yes, my Lord,” the Captains said, bowing to the Prince before they dispatched his commands. 

From his vantage point, Legolas looked to the silent, barred entrance of Erebor. Thorin’s company had blocked the entrance securely with massive stones from the mountain placed in the intricate diagonal pattern common to Dwarvish tactics. It would take a great force to dislodge those stones. 

“Please, Thorin,” the Elf quietly said. “You are needed.”

~*~*~*~*~

Deep inside the throne room of the Dwarf city, the battle was but a distant dream. Thorin sat in his throne of carven stone, hewn from a pillar of the mountain’s rich deposits of quartz and gold. He did not notice Dwalin’s approach until his Lieutenant was standing before him. Dwalin spoke without waiting to be addressed.

“Since when do we abandon our own people?” he asked severely. “Thorin,” he pleaded, his voice taking on a more placating tone. “They are dying out there.”

Thorin seemed not to hear Dwalin’s words. “There are holds upon holds in this mountain,” he whispered, echoing what he had said to Legolas. “Places that we can fortify. Shore up. Make safe.” He had brooded on the subject since the Elven Prince had left. “Yes,” he said, suddenly standing up. “Yes, that is it,” he repeated, as though a great epiphany had come over him. “We must move the gold further underground,” he told Dwalin. 

Dwalin shook his head in disbelief. “Did you not hear me?” he questioned, attempting – and failing – to stay the anger in his voice. “Dain is surrounded. They’re being _slaughtered_ , Thorin.”

Thorin’s cold gaze fell on his Lieutenant. “Many die in war,” he replied dispassionately. “Life is cheap. But a treasure such as this cannot be counted in lives lost. It is worth all the blood we can spend.” 

Dwalin understood then what it was to feel his heart breaking. “You sit here in these vast halls with a crown upon your head,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “And yet, you are lesser now than you have ever been.”

Dwalin’s comment finally provoked Thorin out of his stupor, and the King under the Mountain stood up in a rage. 

“Do not speak to me as if I were some lowly Dwarf Lord,” Thorin threatened, stepping towards the other Dwarf. “As if I were still…” He searched for the right words. “As if I were still Thorin Oakenshield!” he said at last. 

Thorin pulled out his sword and for the briefest moment, Dwalin thought that he would be struck down. _Better to die here_ , the Lieutenant thought, _by his hand. I have always served him, and I always will_.

But Thorin did not strike him down. He brandished his sword, swinging it wildly as he yelled, “I am your KING!” 

Dwalin did not flinch at this violent display. “You were always my king,” he said quietly. “You used to know that once. You cannot see what you have become.” 

“Go,” Thorin said. “Get out. Before I kill you.”

~*~*~*~*~

Rage still flowed through Thorin after Dwalin had departed. Dwalin had turned on him too, his most faithful lieutenant. The insolence! The disrespect! He would not stand for it. First Bilbo, then Legolas and now Dwalin. They were all false.

Thorin paced in front of the throne restlessly. The voices would give him no peace. They were louder than ever, clamoring for his attention, whispering insidiously to him. He must get away! He left the throne room, turning automatically to the treasure hoard, but a long golden glint in the corner of his eye stopped him. The Hall of Kings.

Thorin remembered now and his steps drew him to the mighty hall where the statues of his ancestors lined the walls. This was where his Company had made their last stand against the usurper, against the wyrm that had ruined all their lives. Thorin had baited the dragon to follow him, and in the hall of his ancestors, he had turned Smaug into the living moniker of his name – Smaug the Golden, the dragon had once been called. But even the freshly melted gold from the statue of Thror had not been enough to drown the dragon. It had only further enraged him. But the Company’s actions had also succeeded in finally driving the wyrm from the mountain, to which Smaug would never return.

Thorin wandered the vast hall whose floor was now plated in shining gold, so bright that it was dazzling to the eye. He was mesmerized by the sight of it. As he gazed into the sea of shimmering gold, he would swear that he saw it ripple, that something long and sinuous swam beneath the surface. He leaned closer. Yes! There was something beneath the gold, something slithering in his wake. The voices were still competing for his attention. So many voices. So many lies. But there was one voice that rose among the others. 

_You are not your grandfather._

Thorin’s brow furrowed. What did that mean? 

_You are not your grandfather._

The shape beneath the sea of gold moved again. Thorin’s eyes followed it. It was the wyrm! The wyrm was still here! 

_You are not your grandfather._

The Dwarf-King shook his head, the floor unstable beneath his feet. It had begun to roll like waves, as if he truly were at sea. 

“I am not my grandfather,” he gasped aloud. 

The floor was no longer rolling. It was sinking, pulling him down; like a pit of quicksand it was sucking him into the bowels of the mountain.

“I am not my grandfather,” he said again. 

“I am not my grandfather!” he cried desperately one last time before he was swallowed by the sea of gold.

~*~*~*~*~

There was a loud clink of metal against metal. Thorin stood in a daze, slowly focusing on an object that lay at his feet. It was his crown. He had flung his crown to the floor. Thorin’s vision cleared, as did his mind. For the first time since Legolas had paid him that nighttime visit, he felt at peace. He knew what he had to do. When he rejoined the Company, they were sitting dejectedly on the stones piled in front of the main entrance. Kili jumped up at once, his voice raised in anger as he walked towards his uncle.

“I will not hide behind a wall of stone while others fight our battles for us!” he cried. He stopped in front of the King. “It is not in my blood, Thorin,” he said.

Thorin smiled at his younger nephew kindly. Kili reminded him so much of himself. It was an awful thing to admit, but in his heart he knew that Kili was his favorite. “No, it is not,” he agreed. “We are sons of Durin. And Durin’s folk do not flee from a fight.”

Kili fought back the tears that were welling in his eyes. This was the uncle that he knew and loved, free from the dragon sickness at last. He touched his forehead to Thorin’s, a sign of their strong familial bond. Kili felt lighter when Thorin turned to face the rest of the Company, as though an immense burden had fallen from his shoulders. They would do what was right.

Thorin was facing the rest of the Company now with Kili and Dwalin standing behind him. “I have no right to ask this of you,” he told the others. “But will you follow me one last time?”

~*~*~*~*~

The chime of the giant bronze bell that smashed through the wall of stone that barred Erebor’s main gate reverberated throughout the mountain into the battlefield of the Long Valley and right into the city of Dale. Legolas heard the peal of the bell and saw through Landroval’s eyes how Thorin and his Company had burst out of Erebor. By this time, Dain had had no choice but to fall back to the front of the gate, blocked from entering the mountain by the moat and the gate itself. The Orcs were closing in on the remnants of the Dwarf army. But the crash of the bell and the falling rocks had created a passageway for Thorin and his Company to cross. They raced over the bridge of stones in a dagger shield formation.

“To the King! To the King!” Dain cried, rallying what was left of the Dwarf army.

The Dwarves surged forward, following the King’s formation. The shield wall spread across the length of the army with Thorin and his nephews as the tip of the blade. The tactic was an aggressive one since there was a strong likelihood of being surrounded by superior numbers. But the element of surprise remained on the Dwarves’ side and the shield wall cut through the disoriented Orc troops. 

“The Dwarves!” Bilbo cried in excitement. “The Dwarves are rallying!” 

The hobbit was standing on a rampart overlooking the Long Valley. He gestured for Legolas and Gandalf to come and see.

Concerned for the hobbit’s safety, Legolas had searched for Bilbo upon entering Dale. He had found the hobbit fighting by the wizard’s side, a well-made Elvish dagger glowing a fierce blue in his hand. 

“It is called ‘Sting,’” Bilbo had told him a little proudly. “Christened by Mirkwood spiders,” he added. 

Legolas’s heart had lightened at the sight of the hobbit and his words. Here was goodness and courage undiminished, found in a hobbit that should not have been so far from his peaceful lands. Legolas joined the pair, resolved that Bilbo should not come to harm if it were in his power. 

Now Bilbo beckoned him eagerly. “Come see! Come see!” he cried. 

Legolas, followed by Gandalf, went to the rampart where Bilbo was pointing at the rampaging Dwarf army. The shield formation was slicing through the Orc horde, moving too quickly to be outflanked. 

Gandalf turned to Legolas with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. “We may win the day yet,” the wizard said. 

Legolas cast one more look at the charging Dwarf army before he followed the wizard back into the city and rejoined the battle.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an over-sized penultimate chapter because I so badly want to get the battle over with. (I still detest writing action as much as ever!) Prepare yourself. This chapter contains canonical character death.

The sky had turned grey as the afternoon wore on and Anor disappeared behind overcast clouds. The once desolate plain of the Long Valley now ran red and black with the blood of Dwarves, Elves and Orcs. Thorin found himself in the midst of it all, a new kind of lust – blood lust – singing in his veins. His nostrils flared as he slashed through every foul creature that crossed his path. He felt invigorated by the battle, and his hatred for Orcs and Goblins ran deep, much deeper than any distrust and spite he’d once felt for the Elves. He vividly remembered Thror’s campaign to reclaim the ancient Dwarf realm of Moria, and how his grandfather had lost his life to the Defiler. It was on that day that Azog had made it clear that his goal was to bring an end to the line of Durin, to Thorin’s great family name. This battle for Erebor was a continuation of that, though the stakes had been significantly raised since Azog now served a far greater power. 

In front of the gates of Erebor, Thorin finally found his cousin, Lord Dain of the Iron Hills. Theirs was a joyful reunion despite the circumstances, a far cry from the cold shoulder that Thorin had given his cousin when Dain had come to visit him in Erebor. That visit seemed like an age ago, when it had only been a matter of hours. 

“Cousin!” Dain had yelled upon catching sight of Thorin on the battlefield. “What took you so long?” he needled affectionately before he embraced the King. “There’s too many of these buggers,” he told Thorin more seriously when they broke apart. “I hope you’ve got a plan.” 

“Aye,” Thorin agreed. “We’re going to take out their leader.” 

“Azog,” Dain breathed in understanding. “The Defiler has not been seen,” he said after a moment. “Legolas has been keeping an eye out for him. The Elf Prince also wishes to cut off the head of the serpent.”

“That filth has shown his face at last,” Thorin replied, grabbing the reins of a large war ram from the Dwarf cavalry as it jogged by them riderless. In a smooth motion, Thorin mounted the ram. “He’s been sighted on Ravenhill,” he explained, “and I’m going to kill him.” 

“Thorin,” Dain protested. “You cannot do this. You are our King!” 

Thorin shook his head. “Nay,” he disagreed. “That is _why_ I must do it. Long has Azog sought to exterminate the line of Durin. No more.” 

“And how do you plan to fight your way single-handed to Ravenhill?” Dain questioned.

Thorin looked up and saw the mighty eagle that had become fast friends with the Elven Prince patrolling the skies. Somehow, he knew that Legolas was watching. “I won’t be alone,” he said, somewhat enigmatically. 

At that moment, a Dwarf war chariot drove up and stopped beside the King. At the chariot’s reins was Balin, while his brother manned the great mechanical crossbow in the chariot’s hold, and Fili and Kili wielded smaller weapons at the chariot’s sides. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” Balin said a little ruefully. 

Thorin looked back at his cousin and grinned. “I won’t be alone,” he repeated before charging into the Orc horde, the Dwarf chariot following in his wake. 

“You’re a mad bastard!” Dain called after them, brandishing his mallet. The Lord of the Iron Hills was grinning wildly. “And I like it! May Durin save you all!”

~*~*~*~*~

In Dale, the combined forces of Lake-town and the Elven army were finally making headway into the orcs that had swarmed the ruined city. Bard had known that in the open battlefield, his militia army would have stood little chance against these Orcs bred for war. Few of the Lake-town soldiers were ‘real’ soldiers. They were not hardened for battle like the Dwarves of the Iron Hills, nor as swift and skillful as the Elves of the Woodland Realm. But they had heart and courage, and that would be enough. The city of Dale gave the army of Lake-town a fighting chance with its narrow cobbled streets, rocky lanes, and multi-storied buildings, crumbling though they may be. Bard had laid traps throughout the city, funneling and separating the Orcs into smaller groups that his people could ambush and kill. But even Bard had not been prepared for their sheer number and guerilla tactics could only go so far.

It was with great relief that Bard watched the Elvenking storm the city through the main gates, cutting down a troop of a dozen Orcs in what looked like a single blow from his twin swords. Bard had seen Legolas fight and believed the Prince to be without peer, but somehow it had not occurred to him that the Elvenking would be just as fearsome and glorious in battle as his son, perhaps even more so. He associated Thranduil with leisure and elegance, but now he was witnessing a great Elf Lord leading his people into battle. It reminded him that Thranduil came from another age, from a time long before Bard’s ancestors had ever ruled the city of Dale.

With the Elves and their superior forces now in Dale, the Orcs found themselves outmatched. Bard had also seen Legolas join them at Dale, and had known at once that the Prince had brought his own companies with him. The Elves fought the Orcs head-on. There were no guerilla tactics for Thranduil’s people. Little by little, the combined armies pushed the Orcs out of the city until they had reclaimed it. A loud cheer burst out of the men of Lake-town, though the Elves were far more sedate in their celebration.

“The city is ours!” Bard yelled, punctuating his cry with his outstretched sword. He turned to see the Elf Prince approach him with the wizard and the Halfling not far behind. “We should aid the Dwarves,” he told Legolas, but to his surprise the Elf shook his head. 

“Thorin cannot defeat them on his own,” Bard protested. 

“The city has not been won,” Legolas countered. “This is but a reprieve.” He looked up as though he were searching for something and Bard followed his gaze. 

“What do you seek?” the Man asked. 

“Signs of Bolg’s arrival,” the Prince answered.

Bard felt the joy of their victory slip away. How could he have forgotten about Bolg? 

“We cannot leave the city unguarded,” Legolas continued. “Bolg will still come from the North. Move your forces to the parts of the city that face Ravenhill. That is where Bolg’s legions will appear. I will ask my father to do the same.” 

“And if Azog seeks again to come at us from behind?” Bard questioned. 

“The Defiler is too occupied with the Dwarf army for the moment,” Legolas replied. “May the Dwarves hold his attention for a while longer. I must go help Thorin,” he added. He was about to turn away when Bard grasped his arm. 

“What is Thorin doing?” Bard asked. 

“I am about to find out.”

~*~*~*~*~

Thorin had been correct when he’d believed that Legolas was somehow watching him, though he knew nothing of the seeing spell that had been cast on Landroval. Legolas had seen Thorin mount the war ram and charge into the Orc horde followed by his best warriors in a Dwarf chariot. Legolas had no idea where they were headed or what they intended to do, but with Dale secured for the moment, now was the best time to find out. Once more he called to Landroval and the eagle swept down from the heavens.

“To Thorin,” Legolas instructed.

Landroval dipped his head in acknowledgement before seeking out the Dwarf-King. However, it was not Thorin who eventually caught the Elf’s keen eyesight, but the white-haired councilor, of whom Legolas had grown very fond. Somehow the war chariot had become separated from the King and was now careening wildly on the frozen river that flowed along the side of the Long Valley. Legolas could see for himself how a warg pack pursued the Dwarves, attempting to surround them. Balin was driving the chariot, while Dwalin fired the repeating mechanical crossbow at the incoming pack. Two of the wargs were cut down by the iron bolts, but another two attacked the lead pair of tracer rams. The chariot managed to avoid the remaining wargs, but it was slowing down. When another warg tore away a third ram, Legolas knew that the chariot would no longer be able to outrun the beasts. They were carrying too much weight and there were only three rams left for a chariot that was meant to be pulled by six. As Fili, Kili and Dwalin mounted the remaining rams, cutting away the reins that leashed the rams to the chariot, Legolas understood that Balin was sacrificing himself so that the others could get away. Before that could happen, Legolas instructed Landroval to dive from their position.

~*~*~*~*~

“I’m too old for this,” Balin muttered as he fired iron arrow after iron arrow into the wargs charging towards him. He did not have enough bolts, but he would kill as many of the creatures as he could before they tore him apart. The chariot had skidded to a halt against the frozen bank of the river.

When Balin fired the last bolt, there were still four wargs remaining. The first was almost upon him. Balin shut his eyes as the creature made its leap. He waited for the claws and the razor teeth to rend his flesh, but nothing happened. All he felt was a wisp of wind and when he opened his eyes, it was just in time to see the great eagle fling the warg away with one of its claws. Then the Elven Prince was in the chariot with him, firing his own arrows – two a piece – into the attacking wargs. One by one the beasts fell, until the last warg collapsed a few feet from the chariot. 

Legolas turned to face him. “Are you all right?” the Prince asked. 

“I’ve had better days,” Balin admitted.

The Prince grinned at the Dwarf’s deadpan humor, but his smile quickly vanished when he saw the blood staining Balin’s already dark red shirt. 

“You’re wounded,” Legolas said, immediately crouching down beside the Dwarf where Balin was leaning against the chariot’s body.

“’Tis nothing but a flesh wound,” Balin replied, as Legolas peeled away the bloodied Dwarf mail and protective undershirt. 

“This is more than a flesh wound,” Legolas chastised. “But it is not fatal,” he reassured the councilor. He took out a small pouch from an inner pocket of his forest green jerkin. “This will stop the bleeding,” he explained. As he stanched and dressed the wound he asked, “Where is Thorin headed?” 

“Ravenhill,” Balin answered. 

“Ravenhill?” Legolas repeated with dismay. “What is he doing there?” 

“The Defiler has finally shown himself. Thorin means to end this battle by killing him. Orcs are a mindless horde without a commander.” 

Legolas took a deep breath, but Balin was able to read the Elf’s frustration anyway. 

“What is it, laddie?” 

“My forces are no longer at Ravenhill,” Legolas said. “And Thorin is riding into a trap.” 

“What d’ye mean?” 

“If Azog has shown himself at Ravenhill then it is only because Bolg will arrive soon. Bolg brings with him another force from Gundabad.” 

Balin’s brow creased with concern. 

“Does Thorin take the narrow pass?” Legolas questioned, thinking of the dozen archers that he had left there. Perhaps they would be able to aid Thorin and his warriors. 

“Nay,” Balin said. “Iron Hill war rams are mighty climbers. They’ll have no difficulty going straight up the mountainside and directly into the old watchtower.”

Legolas’s consternation grew. He had to get to Thorin. _Now._ But one look at the wounded councilor reminded him that he could not leave the Dwarf here, alone and defenseless. 

“Landroval will take you to Dale,” Legolas said. “The city is secure for the moment. Gandalf and Bilbo are there. You will be well looked after.” 

“No!” Balin immediately objected. “ _You_ must take Landroval to Ravenhill.”

Before Legolas could counter with his own argument, blood-curling shrieks filled the air. 

“Bolg is almost upon us,” Legolas said, watching as the sky grew dark with the arrival of the swarming war bats. A hand gripped his arm fiercely and he looked down. 

“You _must_ take Landroval to Ravenhill,” Balin repeated.

Legolas smiled kindly at the gentlemanly old Dwarf. “I will find another way to Ravenhill,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Do you trust me on this?” 

Balin exhaled loudly, his sigh a cross between fondness and exasperation. “Aye, laddie,” he said. “I do.” 

Legolas nodded before signaling for Landroval to sweep down. Then he picked up the Dwarf, holding him aloft so that Landroval could gently grasp Balin in one of his claws. Legolas watched for a moment as the eagle bore the Dwarf away before turning his attention to the problem of getting to Ravenhill. The quickest way was still to fly…

~*~*~*~*~

Thorin rejoined his group at the base of the rocky cliff that marked the Ravenhill watchtower. He did not know what had become of the chariot or why Balin was no longer with them, but there was no time to ask.

“Onwards!” he called, as Dwalin, Fili and Kili fell into formation behind him. 

The war rams of the Iron Hills leaped onto the rocky pass and began the hard climb. At the first level of the frozen watchtower, the Dwarves cut down the Orcs that they met before moving onto the second level. These Orcs were even bigger and better armored than the Orcs on the main battlefield. _Azog’s personal guard_ , Thorin thought as he sliced off a creature’s head. There were a few more Orcs on the second tier of the watchtower that they dispatched easily enough, but when they reached the main top level, it was completely abandoned.

Thorin looked across the frozen lake and scanned the northern most end of the watchtower. 

“Where is he?” he heard Kili ask behind him. 

“Do you think Azog has fled?” Fili asked in return. 

“I don’t think so,” Thorin answered. He turned around, his mind made up. “Fili,” he said, as he walked to his nephew. “Take your brother and scout out the towers. Keep low and out of sight,” he added, looking at Kili as he said this. “If you see something, report back. Do _not_ engage. Do you understand?” 

The two young Dwarves nodded.

“We have company,” Dwalin interrupted as he joined the group. “Goblin mercenaries. No more than a hundred.” 

“We’ll take care of them,” Thorin replied, unfazed by the number that Dwalin had so casually said. “Go! Go!” he instructed his nephews as the goblins began their charge.

~*~*~*~*~

“Balin!” Bilbo cried when Landroval appeared at one of the ramparts of Dale bearing the wounded Dwarf in one of his claws.

Gently, the eagle set the Dwarf down before landing on the rampart. 

“What’s happened?” Bilbo said, rushing over to the elderly Dwarf. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Balin answered somewhat testily, embarrassed at all the fuss that was being made over him. First Legolas and now Bilbo. It seemed to him that even Landroval was looking down at him appraisingly. “It’s just a graze from one of the warg riders,” he explained, downplaying the severity of his injury to ease the Hobbit’s distress. “Legolas has already dressed the wound and assured me it’s not fatal.”

“Legolas?” Bilbo repeated, perking up at the mention of the Elf. “You were with Legolas? Where is he now?” 

“He’s gone to Ravenhill,” Balin answered, wondering to himself how the Prince had managed to do so. 

“Ravenhill?”

Bilbo recalled the name. It was the place where Legolas had originally stationed his companies before their forces had become overwhelmed by Azog’s army. But there was no one at Ravenhill now! Why would the Prince go there? Bilbo didn’t realize it, but he’d actually asked his last question out loud and Balin answered him. 

“To help Thorin,” Balin said gravely. “They are going to kill Azog.” 

Bilbo felt a knot forming in his stomach. He couldn’t explain it, but something felt terribly wrong.

“I only hope the Prince gets there in time,” Balin was saying. 

“Why?” 

Balin pointed to the bats that were now sweeping over the battlefield. “Because Bolg is almost upon us,” he said. “And Ravenhill will soon be overrun.”

“Landroval,” Bilbo suddenly said, addressing the great eagle who was momentarily resting. “Please,” he pleaded. “Will you take me to Ravenhill?” 

“Bilbo, no!” Balin objected. “What will you do at Ravenhill?” 

“I don’t know,” Bilbo answered with a helpless shrug of his shoulders. “But I feel I must help in some way. What if Legolas does not get there in time? What if he’s waylaid for some reason? Thorin must be told about the trap.” He looked again at the eagle. “Please, Landroval.” 

The eagle finally nodded and though Bilbo disliked flying greatly, he clambered onto the eagle’s back.

“May Durin be with you!” Balin called, as they took off. 

Bilbo knew he was gripping Landroval far too tightly, but the eagle didn’t complain. This was easily the worst flight that he’d ever been on. No clear skies, no burnished sun, no Elf Prince keeping him secure. Instead, there were war bats everywhere and Landroval dipped and banked to avoid the creatures. The little Hobbit was thankful that he hadn’t been able to eat much before the battle had begun, otherwise he’d surely have thrown it all up by now. Landroval strove ever higher for the heavens, climbing above the path of the oncoming war bats. 

“Do you see that in the distance?” the eagle asked him, when they had clearer skies in front of them. 

Hobbits have keen eyesight. Not as keen as the eagles or the Elves, of course, but Bilbo could see very well. He craned his neck and peered to get a better look. In the far distance, he could see a host flying towards them. 

“More war bats?” he asked with trepidation, feeling the knot in his stomach grow tighter. 

“No, Master Baggins,” Landroval said. “That is my kin.”

~*~*~*~*~

Kili hated being separated from his brother. It was a bad idea, but he also knew that they would be able to search the watchtowers more quickly this way. He didn’t object when Fili told him to scout the lower levels. He didn’t like it, but he agreed.

~*~*~*~*~

“Bilbo!” Thorin said in surprise when Landroval alighted and the Halfling slid off the eagle’s back. He’d expected to see the Prince, not the Hobbit.

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, his face etched with anxiety. “You must leave this place at once! Azog has another army coming from the north. This watchtower will soon be surrounded. There’ll be no way out.” 

“We are so close,” Dwalin countered. “That Orc scum is in there. I say we push on.” 

“No,” Thorin said, stopping Dwalin as the Lieutenant was about to stride past him. “That’s what he wants,” he said, referring to Azog. “He wants to draw us in. This is a trap,” he said, with sudden realization. He glanced behind him at the eagle who had not yet left. “Do you know where Legolas is?”

“No,” Landroval said. “But I am certain that he is on his way here. My apologies, King under the Mountain,” the eagle added. “But I must go to my kin.” 

Before Thorin could ask what Landroval meant by that, the eagle took to the skies. “Find Fili and Kili,” he ordered instead, turning back to Dwalin. “Call them back.”

“Thorin, are you sure about this?” Dwalin questioned. 

“Yes,” Thorin said with conviction. “We’ll live to fight another day.”

Dwalin was about to do as instructed when a deep drumbeat drew their attention to the watchtower across the frozen water. The tower, which had appeared to be abandoned and shrouded in a thick mist now flickered with torchlight in two of the upper tiers where the drums sounded. In the topmost tier, Azog emerged, flanked by his personal guard and dragging Fili by the scruff of his chain mail shirt. Thorin felt his heart leap into his throat. 

“No,” he whispered. 

Azog swung Fili up as though the Dwarf weighed nothing. Holding him high, the Pale Orc called out, his voice carrying clearly over the stillness, “This one dies first. Then the brother. Then you, Oakenshield.” 

Azog’s words were deliberate, the dark joy in them made more malevolent by the guttural sounds of Mordor’s Black Speech. The Orc Commander brought Fili down. “You will die last,” Azog said, as he swung his blade behind Fili. 

“No!” Fili called out, struggling in the Gundabad Orc’s grasp. “Run!” Fili yelled with his last breath as Azog plunged his blade into the young Dwarf’s back. 

“So ends your filthy bloodline,” Azog said in triumph as he carelessly dropped Fili’s body to the ground below.

For a moment, Thorin was too shocked to react, but when the realization of what had just happened hit him, a rage like he had never known before came over him. “Kili!” he yelled, running down the steps to cross to the other side. 

“Thorin!” Dwalin immediately called, but it was too late. Thorin was already rushing to the other watchtower, heedless of the danger.

Bilbo was in a daze, unable to comprehend what was happening. Fili was dead. The Defiler had murdered him in front of their eyes. No, that couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be. Aimlessly, he reached for Sting and drew the Elvish dagger out, though he hardly had the strength to grip the blade. 

“Legolas,” he whispered, his steps unsteady as he followed Thorin and Dwalin. “Where are you?”

~*~*~*~*~

The Elf Prince was, at that very moment, hanging upside down from one of the Gundabad war bats that had given him so much trouble in recent days. The fastest way to Ravenhill was indeed to fly, and Legolas had decided to hitch a ride on one of the bats. Unfortunately, he had no means to control the direction of the bat’s flight, but with some luck, he had chosen a bat that was headed northward towards the watchtower. With even greater luck, the bat had flown low enough to a troop of arriving Gundabad orcs so that Legolas could decapitate them with his twin blades as they swept through. _Bolg is here_ , the Prince thought as he slashed his way through the Orc lines.

Before diving to cut down the Orc troops, he had seen Azog and Thorin fighting at the side of the northern watchtower and the urgency to reach them grew. He needed a high vantage point; somewhere he could provide cover. The answer came in the form of a single column, once a part of the main buildings but thanks to ruin and decay, now stood alone. Legolas sheathed his twin knives and drew his bow. Timing it perfectly, he placed an arrow through the bat’s head, killing the creature as they flew over the lone column. The bat released him as it died and Legolas landed gracefully on top of the ruined tower.

~*~*~*~*~

The blow from Azog’s mace flung Thorin out of the watchtower, winding the Dwarf badly as he slid across the ice of the frozen lake. Azog had been waiting for him the moment he had entered the northern watchtower. Thorin had forgotten how strong his foe was. Azog was the mightiest of all the Gundabad Orcs, and it was for good reason that he had been chosen by the Enemy to lead his army. In his rage, Thorin had fought without care for himself. His emotions had made him a little rash, while Azog fought with cunning, patience and superior strength. Thorin had found himself outmatched, until he’d managed to deal a blow that sent the Defiler tumbling down the side of the watchtower. Thorin’s reprieve was brief, however, since he was soon set upon by Azog’s personal guard. These Orcs were not as skilled as their master, but Thorin was outnumbered. It was while fighting one of these Orcs that Thorin’s sword had broken. Now as he stood up alone on the ice with nothing but a broken blade to defend himself, he heard Azog call out.

“Go in for the kill! Finish him!”

Thorin steeled himself for the final fight. He knew that he would die here, surrounded and alone. He gripped his broken blade as the Orcs rushed onto the ice. There were too many of them. Even if he managed to kill these Orcs, he knew that Bolg’s army had arrived. Ravenhill would soon be overrun. There would be no escape. 

As the first Orc neared him, Thorin prepared to cut him down when the Orc fell dead. Thorin recognized the fletching. An Elvish arrow. Another rushing Orc fell and then a third. Thorin looked behind him to see where the arrows had come from. High atop a single column, the Elf Prince was firing into the attacking Orcs. Despite the gravity of his situation, Thorin’s face broke into a smile and he held the hilt of his blade aloft to acknowledge the Prince. He knew that Legolas would come. The Elf gave a quick nod in return, not once breaking his rhythm. Thorin turned back to the oncoming Orcs with a renewed determination. He was not alone.

~*~*~*~*~

Kili had stepped back in shock when the body of his brother had landed in front of him. He had heard Azog calling out across the expanse of the frozen lake, addressing his uncle, but he could not see the Pale Orc. He knew that the Defiler was somewhere above him, where Fili had been scouting in the upper tiers and had told him to go below. This was why Kili had feared being separated. He belonged by his brother’s side. They were always stronger together. It was for that same reason that Fili had not abandoned him when he’d been grievously wounded by the Morgul shaft. It did not occur to Kili in his overwhelming grief and anger that if he had been with brother, then he too would have been captured, and would most likely be lying dead beside his brother.

Instead, Kili had charged up the steps of the watchtower, recklessly and ruthlessly cutting down the Orcs that crossed his path. Like his uncle, he sole purpose was to find the Defiler and end his life. As he fought through the Orcs, it was not the Defiler whom he came upon, but his hulking son, Bolg, who appeared from the shadows of one of the passageways. Bolg was a massive Gundabad Orc, of a size and strength that Kili had not encountered before save for Azog himself. But where Azog was almost noble in his proportions, exulting in the scarification of his body and the double-edged scimitar that was now attached to his missing limb, Bolg for all his size and strength looked to be a decaying creature. Kili couldn’t help but notice the Orc’s rotting lips, his mutilated nose, and the hideous cage that encompassed his skull as though the metal sought to hold Bolg’s head together, a reminder of some terrible trauma that the Orc must have undergone. _Perhaps at the gate of Moria_ , Kili briefly thought, his mind flickering to tales of that great battle.

There was no time to reminisce as Bolg steadily bore down on him. Kili was tiring and there was no one to come to his aid. When Bolg landed a blow that nearly rendered him senseless, Kili fell back disoriented. He was vaguely aware of Bolg leaning over him, of the sharp pointed end of the Orc’s mace about to deal a fatal blow. Kili fought for breath, even as the weight of Bolg’s other hand crushed his chest, and he struggled to reach his sword. 

“Kili!”

It was a voice so familiar and yet Kili knew it couldn’t be. It was impossible! Yet, a second later, Tauriel seemed to leap from the very skies. The Elf landed on Bolg’s back, bringing her blade down on Bolg’s right shoulder. The Gundabad Orc roared in pain, releasing Kili as he did so. With a swipe of his arm, Bolg flung Tauriel off his back and she landed hard against the rock wall. Kili scrambled to his feet and reached for his sword, slashing at the lower half of Bolg’s legs. Bolg swung his mace at Kili, flinging the Dwarf against a stone staircase. Kili could feel the blood in his mouth from the blow. He made to stand again as Bolg moved towards Tauriel. But Tauriel was already on her feet. Kili could do nothing but watch as she swung her arms around the Gundabad Orc’s neck to avoid the killing blow from Bolg’s mace. Tauriel used the rock wall as leverage when Bolg tried to dislodge her, and Kili could only watch in horror as the two of them fell over the rock face. 

“Tauriel!” he cried in despair.

~*~*~*~*~

Legolas felt the column that he was standing on tremble violently. He lost his balance and one of his arrows missed its mark. Looking below him in annoyance, the Elf saw a war troll shaking the column’s foundations with his battering rams. At some point, he would have to deal with that beast. As Legolas was about to return his attention to the task at hand, his keen eyesight caught a figure in bright forest green tumbling down the side of the watchtower opposite him.

“Tauriel!” he exclaimed in surprise. 

_Menelcar must have brought her back_ , he quickly realized. His relief at seeing her turned to alarm when he saw whom Tauriel had been fighting. Bolg loomed over the steps, walking slowly to where Tauriel had landed unconscious. He was intent on finishing her off. Instantly, Legolas reached behind him to pull an arrow from his quiver, but all his fingers encountered was air. He reached back again in vain. His quiver was empty. Legolas threw away his bow in consternation, drawing Orcrist in its place. Remembering the troll, he leaped off the column, landing squarely on the troll’s thick neck with Orcrist plunged into the beast’s brain. The beast let out a pained cry as Legolas twisted the blade, turning the creature in the direction of the column. As Legolas drove the blade deeper, the troll ran forward and using its head as a battering ram, the beast knocked the column down completely, creating a bridge for Legolas to cross to the other side. The troll fell down the rock face as Legolas landed on the unstable bridge.

Bolg saw the Elf Prince striding across the fallen tower and the She-elf was immediately forgotten. He leaped from his position, landing with such force that some of the rocks of the column fell beneath him. He met the Elf halfway, swinging his three-pronged mace as Legolas countered with Orcrist. Bolg remembered how skilled the Elf Prince was. This time he would finish him. The Prince’s head would make a pretty prize.

The column continued to fall away as they fought. At one point, Bolg struck the floor of the column with such a blow that although Legolas had managed to avoid the strike easily; the floor gave way beneath him. He dropped to the lower level of the column, only to have Bolg jump down and pursue him. The Orc swung his mace wildly, but each time Bolg missed him, he would strike a stone that would crumble and fall. The tower was progressively becoming more unstable. Legolas deflected Bolg’s blows as he managed to climb to the upper level of the column again, but Bolg continued to push him backwards. The Orc fought ferociously and the Prince remained on the defensive, unable to launch his own attack. One particularly hard blow had Legolas losing his footing and falling down. Bolg leaned over him triumphantly. In response, Legolas held Orcrist up, prepared to block Bolg’s next blow despite his poor position on the ground. The sound of a heavy object landing behind the Gundabad Orc distracted them both. Legolas watched as Bolg lost his balance, the weight of whatever had landed behind him loosening the stones on which the Orc stood. Bolg grunted in frustration and fell, buried beneath a mini avalanche of stones from the crumbling tower.

Legolas got to his feet and looked up. He saw Thorin lying at the very edge of the frozen lake, which in another season would have roared down as a crashing waterfall. Legolas understood that Thorin had flung the Orc he had been fighting over the lake’s edge and had saved him from Bolg. But now the Dwarf was defenseless and another Gundabad Orc was looming over him. Legolas longed for his bow and full quiver, but instead he looked at the gleaming Elvish sword in his hand. _Orcrist will give Thorin a fighting chance_ , he thought, aiming the sword straight for the chest of the Gundabad Orc.

No sooner had the Prince flung Orcrist than Bolg came charging out of the rubble. Legolas instantly dropped to his knees to avoid Bolg’s blow, spinning away and drawing his twin blades simultaneously. He slashed at Bolg’s lower chest, but the Orc did not seem to feel the cuts at all. Legolas stabbed Bolg in the back with one of the long knives and the other he drove squarely into Bolg’s left hand. The Gundabad Orc gave him a leering grin as his hand closed over the Elf’s before pulling it away, the long knife still embedded in his palm. Bolg lifted the mace in his right arm, and Legolas blocked the blow with both his hands, gripping Bolg’s arm fiercely. But then he watched in dismay as Bolg lifted his left hand, eyeing the long knife embedded in it and then smiling maliciously at the Elf. Legolas released his hold on Bolg as the Orc swung his own knife at him. He allowed himself to fall back as the knife swiped the space where he had been standing.

Legolas quickly got to his feet, but the Orc was charging at him again, this time carrying a large rock over his head that he hurled at the Elf. Legolas jumped out of the way, but the rock smashed the lower level on which the Elf was standing. It was only the Prince’s swiftness and the immense light tread of the Elves that prevented Legolas from falling to his death. The Prince ran up the stones of the collapsing tower, managing to gain momentum as he did so until he used his speed to leap onto Bolg’s neck and bring down the Orc with his strength and momentum. The action was a ploy to rip free his last long knife from the Orc’s hand and Legolas got to his feet with the blade poised in his right hand. Bolg tumbled backwards, but he too quickly regained his footing and met the Elf head on as Legolas attempted to strike him with the white knife.

It was a moment of déjù vu as Legolas recalled their first encounter in Lake-town, when Bolg’s strength had been a match for his own and the Gundabad Orc had managed to keep Orcrist at bay. Bolg grinned at him cruelly now, thinking that he had once more caught the Elf. But Legolas knew how to adapt, and for the first time he gave Bolg his own dark smile before lightly stepping on the Orc’s knee in order to climb onto his shoulders. Bolg may have been his match in strength, but the Orc was no match for his speed and agility. Before Bolg could even comprehend what the Elf was doing, Legolas had driven his long knife deep into Bolg’s skull, twisting it once to ensure that the Orc would not survive this head injury. He felt Bolg’s shoulders go lax beneath his feet and then in a smooth motion, he back flipped off the Orc, landing precisely on the rocky outcropping behind him. The last of the tower crumbled away and Bolg fell with the ruin.

Legolas immediately searched the surrounding area for Tauriel, but the Elven Captain was not to be found. His attention was drawn back by the sound of clanging steel and breaking ice. On the frozen lake, the rest of the Gundabad Orcs were dead and Thorin was once more engaged in combat with the Defiler. Legolas felt his chest constrict. There was no way for him to aid Thorin. All his weapons were gone and he was too far away. He would have to take a circular route to arrive at the frozen battleground. But more than that, he knew that this was Thorin’s fight and the Dwarf would have it no other way.

~*~*~*~*~

Thorin had been prepared for the final blow. He had killed the last Orc by stabbing it in the neck with his broken blade and then flinging it behind him. He had seen with relief how the falling Orc had temporarily saved the Prince as Bolg had been buried beneath the rubble of the crumbling tower. But when Thorin had looked back, there was another monstrous creature looming over him, raising its own blade to deal the killing blow and he no longer had a means to defend himself. In a matter of seconds, it would be over. He looked away.

But in a matter of seconds, Thorin heard the whizz of a flying blade and when he looked back, Orcrist had been plunged deep into the Orc’s breast. With amazement, Thorin gripped the hilt of the great sword as the creature fell over the edge. Thorin eyed the blade covered in black orcish blood. Orcrist. The Goblin-cleaver. The Prince had returned the sword to him after all, and at the most opportune time. He could think of no finer weapon with which to end the Defiler’s life.

He stood up slowly, holding the Elvish blade with both hands in front of him. His mind was clear and focused, no longer clouded by the immediate rage of Fili’s death and fear over Kili’s well-being. Azog waited across the frozen lake. It was only the two of them now. He strode across the ice, Orcrist held in his right hand.

War horns from the north resounded in the air, marking the arrival of Azog’s second army. Thorin saw the Pale Orc smile and carelessly glance behind him. In the near distance, the Orcs lines were marching over the hill and towards Erebor. Thorin’s heart hardened at the sight. _Erebor may indeed fall on this day_ , the King under the Mountain thought. But so will the Defiler.

Then with a roar, it was Azog who suddenly charged forward, swinging his modified flail. Instead of a spiked ball at the end of the chain, the flail carried a huge cut rock. It was a strong weapon, but imprecise and a poor choice for close quarters combat. Thorin’s shorter height became an advantage as he ducked under the swinging cube of rock. 

Each swing and miss of the massive flail meant that the Defiler was hitting the ice. It did not take long for Thorin to see what would happen. The ice was cracking. Azog was unperturbed by this, so bent was he on striking Thorin down. The Pale Orc couldn’t see – or didn’t care – that the ground on which they fought was growing more unstable. And yet, Azog continued to swing the flail. Thorin was beginning to lose his balance on the slabs of floating ice. Soon enough, the Defiler managed to swipe him off his feet. Thorin landed on his back, winded. He had just enough time to roll out of the way as Azog brought down the flail where he had been. By now, the two of them were trapped on a single large slab of ice in the center of the lake. Thorin was continually scrambling to avoid the flail. When the Dwarf managed to get back on his feet at last, he swung Orcrist across Azog’s midsection. The Pale Orc roared with pain, but did not go down. In retaliation, he lifted the flail high over his head and brought it down behind him, barely missing Thorin.

The flail landed at Thorin’s feet. When Azog tried to lift it again, it stuck. He tugged once, twice. But the flail held fast. In irritation, Azog lashed forward with the scimitar attached to his left arm. Thorin easily ducked, holding Orcrist in front of him.

Time seemed to stop as Azog focused on something behind Thorin’s head. It could’ve been a trick, and Thorin refused to turn around, focusing his attention completely on the Pale Orc. But the Dwarf soon discovered that it was no trick as Azog whipped his head around, watching the direction of the great eagles of Manwë as they flew overhead towards his approaching army. A few of the eagles had riders. The wizard Radagast was among them, as was one of the Woodland Elves. There was no mistaking his longtime foe, Beorn, when the skin-changer leaped from his eagle’s back while they were still high in the air. Beorn transformed as he fell and by the time he landed amidst the Orc army, he was an enormous bear, five times the size of his ordinary kin, and he was tearing the Orcs apart.

 _Could it be so simple?_ Thorin thought as he watched Azog. The Pale Orc was distracted by the sight of his army being decimated by the eagles and the skin-changer. Thorin let Orcrist fall to the ice. When Azog returned his attention to him, he bent down and picked up the end of the flail, throwing the large rock at Azog. The Defiler had no choice but to catch it, his expression a look of puzzlement as he did so. What did the Dwarf mean by this strange action? 

The answer was plain enough when Thorin stepped backwards, shifting the balance of the ice completely to the Orc. Azog’s eyes grew wide with understanding, but it was too late. He was sliding into the ice-cold water, scrambling futilely with his hand and scimitar as the flail fell from his grasp. Thorin watched the Pale Orc disappear into the frozen lake, and exhaled in relief. It was over. At last, it was over. He bent down and picked up Orcrist with his right hand. As he was crouched on the ice, he saw the figure of Azog floating towards him beneath the ice’s surface. He stood up slowly as Azog floated by. The Orc’s eyes were open and still watching him, though he otherwise remained motionless. Hesitantly, Thorin followed the figure. Azog still made him uneasy. He would not be satisfied until he was certain that the Pale Orc was dead. 

The pale blue eyes closed and Thorin felt a small measure of peace come over him. It was done.

A searing pain in his right foot had Thorin crying aloud. He fell backwards as Azog burst out of the ice and landed before him, bringing down his scimitar over Thorin’s chest. The Dwarf barely had enough time to block the blow with his Elvish blade. As Azog’s blade inevitably drew nearer to his chest, Thorin was acutely aware of his disadvantage. He was no match for Azog in raw strength. Even Legolas with the superior strength of the Elves would’ve been hard pressed to match Azog in might, though the Elf had other skills that would’ve served him well in hand-to-hand combat.

Lying on the frozen lake with Azog standing triumphant above him, Thorin knew that his end was near. He could see no way to prevent his death, but he would take the Defiler with him. _Forgive me_ , he thought, though who he was asking forgiveness from was unclear. His company? His kin? Bilbo? Legolas? The long years of his life from his pampered youth as a Dwarf Prince, to the sorrow and struggle of exile, to the joy of reclaiming his homeland, to finding unexpected love in the most unlikeliest of circumstances – all that had lead to this one moment. _It was a life well lived_ , Thorin thought, as he pulled Orcrist out of the way. He gasped as he felt Azog’s blade pierce his chest. Before he lost all strength, Thorin swung Orcrist upwards. Azog had leaned close to him in order to deal the killing blow as Thorin knew he would and now the Pale Orc was near enough for Thorin to strike. Orcrist’s aim was true and the Elvish blade cleanly sliced through Azog’s armor, striking the Defiler right in his black heart. Thorin reversed their positions with all the strength that he had left, thrusting Orcrist deeper into Azog’s chest until he heard and felt the blade crack the ice beneath. Azog let out one final breath, his eyes still filled with hate as they bored into Thorin’s. But then the Defiler’s features slackened and his head fell back onto the ice, lifeless.

Thorin could feel his own life slipping away from him as he fell to the Orc’s side. Now that the task was done and the adrenaline rush of battle was leaving him, weakness and the severity of his injury was taking over. Unsteadily, he managed to get to his feet. Slowly, he walked to the edge of the lake. Above him the eagles flew, and he finally understood what Landroval meant by ‘going to his kin.’ The arrival of the eagles had turned the tide of the battle as Landroval had instructed his kin to attack Bolg’s army before those Orcs ever made it to the plains of the Long Valley. 

Now Thorin stood overlooking the Long Valley. The Orc army there was on the retreat. The Dwarves had won the day, and with Dale finally secure, some of the Elven companies had returned to the battlefield to cut off the retreating Orcs. They had won. Thorin smiled at this thought as he fell to the ground.

~*~*~*~*~

When Bilbo came to, it was to the hazy sight of the eagles flying above him. “The eagles,” the Hobbit murmured, still disoriented. “The eagles have come,” he said, a somewhat dopey smile on his face.

The Hobbit sat up, putting a hand to his head. He couldn’t quite recall what had happened. Fili! he remembered in dismay. He had been about to follow Thorin and Dwalin across the ice when the arrival of Bolg’s advanced scouting party had stopped him. He would’ve been killed then, but Dwalin had miraculously reappeared. Bilbo had joined the fight in the only way he knew how, hurling the rubble at his feet at the oncoming Orcs. This wasn’t quite the same as skipping stones across a river, but Bilbo’s aim was true and he had knocked a few of the Gundabad Orcs unconscious before he too had taken a blow to the head.

Now he got to his feet and looked around him. The isolated watchtower of Ravenhill appeared to be deserted. The Orcs were all dead. But where were his Dwarven companions? Bilbo craned his neck and saw Thorin standing alone on the frozen lake, looking at the battlefield below. The Hobbit was relieved to see the Dwarf-King until Thorin collapsed on the ice. 

_He’s injured!_ Bilbo thought with concern, immediately rushing to Thorin’s side.

“Bilbo,” Thorin choked out when the Hobbit appeared beside him. Thorin was overjoyed to see the Halfling, though he could not express it. 

“Don’t move, don’t move,” Bilbo instructed. “Lie still,” he added, as he inspected Thorin’s wound. “Oh,” he said, recoiling in horror at the severity of the injury. He hoped that Thorin couldn’t see his distress. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Thorin said with difficulty as Bilbo continued to fuss over his wound, though he knew there was nothing the Hobbit could do. “I wish to part from you in friendship.”

Immediately, Bilbo’s gaze was drawn back to Thorin’s face. “No, no,” he protested, but there was a tremor in his voice. “You’re not going anywhere, Thorin. You’re going to live.” 

“I would take back my words and my deeds at the gate,” Thorin pressed on, the strength needed to speak almost too much for him. “You did only what a true friend would do,” he gasped. “Forgive me, I was too blind to see it. I am so sorry that I have led you into such peril,” he said, his voice breaking over his last few words.

“No, no,” Bilbo protested again, gripping Thorin’s hand tightly. “I am glad to have shared in your perils, Thorin,” he insisted, the tears starting to glisten in his eyes. “Each and every one of them. It is far more than any Baggins deserves.”

“Farewell, Master Burglar,” Thorin whispered, a feeling of peace coming over him. Bilbo had forgiven him for his horrible actions. The Hobbit looked away and Thorin knew that Bilbo was crying and didn’t want him to see. 

“Go back to your books…and your armchair…. Plant your tress…watch them grow…” Thorin sighed, growing weaker by the moment. “If more people valued home instead of gold, this world would be a merrier place.” 

“Thorin, no!” Bilbo cried, looking at him again. “Don’t you dare! You must hang on!” he pleaded. “Legolas is here! He’s here, Thorin! He will know what to do!”

 _It was a kind thing to say_ , Thorin thought, even if it wasn’t true. He did wish that the Elf Prince were there. He would’ve liked to say good-bye, perhaps even tell the Elf that he loved him. The Prince didn’t know that, did he? Thorin had never said the words. There had never been enough time.

Though his senses were fading and the world was growing dark, Thorin felt movement on his other side. He no longer had the strength to turn his head but he knew that someone else was beside him. Legolas _was_ there. He could feel the Elf’s presence, almost like a golden light, and smell that faint woodland fragrance that belonged to the Elf alone. The Prince’s name formed on his lips, but he never spoke it and the world fell into darkness.


	20. Chapter 20

It is said that the Dwarves are the Adopted Children of Ilúvatar. They were made by the smith Aulë, who longed to have children to whom he could teach his lore and his crafts. Since the designs of the Children of Ilúvatar were unknown to him, Aulë made the Dwarves as they are: hardy, secretive, stubborn, and steadfast in enmity and loyalty. This was the time before Melkor corrupted the land, and Aulë wished the Dwarves to be strong and unyielding. Fearing the wrath of the other Valar, Aulë made the Dwarves in secret under a mountain in Middle-earth. Here he created the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves, from which all Dwarves would descend. But the Dwarves were bound to his will since Aulë did not possess the divine power to give them true life. 

In the hour that Aulë made the Dwarves, Ilúvatar knew what he had done and reprimanded him. In repentance, Aulë agreed to destroy his creation. Weeping, he took up his hammer to smite the Dwarves, who cowered in fear and begged for mercy. But Ilúvatar’s compassion was great and he took pity upon them and upon his child, the Smith. So, he granted true life to the creations of Aulë and included them in his plans for Arda. But Ilúvatar would not have the Dwarves awaken before his Firstborn, the Elves, and so he bid them to sleep under the mountains in far sundered places until the proper time. 

In a later age, it was said among the Elves in Middle-earth that dying Dwarves returned to the stone and the earth from which they were made, but that was not what the Dwarves believed. They believed that Mahal, the name that they gave to their Maker, cared for them and brought them to the Halls of Mandos, though in halls set apart. It was also believed that Mahal told the ancient Dwarf fathers that Ilúvatar would hallow them and give them a place among the Children in the End. Then, their final duty would be to aid Aulë in the re-making of Arda after the Last Battle. 

As the descendant of Durin’s royal line, Thorin knew all these tales. On some level, he believed them, though it had been many years since he had thought upon them, certainly not since he had been a wee dwarf-lad, eager to hear the tales of his people. Thorin considered the halls of Mandos now as consciousness returned to him, for there was no other place he could be. ‘Halls set apart’ the tales said, for even in their afterlife, Elves and Dwarves must be kept separate, the True Children and the Adopted Children of Ilúvatar. It was a somewhat cruel fate, Thorin mused, that even if Legolas should fall in battle, he would not meet the Elf again in this life. 

But perhaps the tales had been incorrect, for as Thorin got a better grasp of his surroundings, it was the melodious sound of quiet Elvish voices that came to his ears. Perhaps the halls weren’t as separate as their races believed.

Thorin opened his eyes, his vision white and hazy. He was lying down on a very comfortable bed, but his body was completely numb. _Did they have bodies in the afterlife?_ he wondered. Was corporeal form necessary? What happened to his spirit? He had never considered it before. 

A being was standing beside him to his left. The name that had been on Thorin’s lips and in his thoughts since that final confrontation on Ravenhill came out now, in a dry raspy voice that had not been used for many days. 

“Legolas.” 

The being halted its actions. Thorin was not sure what the person had been doing. Tending to him, perhaps? 

“No,” the person answered in a strong, clear voice. “My Lord Legolas will return shortly.”

Thorin lifted his eyes and the Elf’s face came into view. He had moved closer so that Thorin could see him. He was fair of face, as all the Firstborn were, but what was most striking about his features was the Elf’s coppery red hair. It was the color of fire and amber, so vibrant and bright that it put Tauriel’s amber locks to shame. Thorin did not recognize him. 

“It is good to see you awake,” the Elf said approvingly, a deep look of satisfaction on his face. “I am Gaerion, my Lord.” 

Thorin’s throat was so dry that he couldn’t speak. He was aware of someone else entering the room and then the face that he’d longed to see appeared before him. 

“You are awake!” 

Legolas’s delight was plain to see and Thorin smiled faintly in return. The Elf Prince slung an arm across Gaerion’s shoulders and kissed the other Elf on the cheek. It was the sort of affection one bestowed on an older sibling or a very dear friend. Gaerion allowed the affection, giving the Prince a sidelong glance that would probably not have occurred in front of the Elvenking, but spoke volumes about their relationship. Legolas merely smiled in return, his arm falling from Gaerion’s shoulders. 

“I told you he would wake soon,” Legolas told the other Elf, before turning his attention to Thorin. “I see you have already met Gaerion. He is the finest healer in the Woodland Realm and he has been tending to you since the battle ended.”

Gaerion said something in Elvish just then, a touch of reproach in his tone though Thorin could not understand the words. Legolas gave the Healer an indulgent smile and patted his arm, before moving closer to Thorin. 

Thorin desperately wanted to speak to him, but he didn’t even have enough saliva to clear his throat. Legolas seemed to understand his predicament, however, since he poured some water from a silver flagon into a silver cup and brought the cup to Thorin’s lips. He helped Thorin drink, gently lifting the Dwarf’s head so the water would not spill.

“How long?” Thorin managed to get out when Legolas put the cup away. Though his question was hardly precise, the Prince understood its meaning well enough. 

“Five days,” he answered. “Today is the sixth. Gaerion believed it would take at least a week, but I knew you were stronger than that.” 

“These are not the Halls of Mandos then,” Thorin observed, his eyes sweeping over his own familiar bedroom. 

“I am most relieved that they are not,” Legolas replied, still smiling. 

Thorin’s gaze focused on the Elf Prince. “I cannot feel my body,” he said, his tone growing concerned. Now that he was certain that he was indeed alive and that the Prince was not a product of his imagination, his thoughts turned to the grievous injury he must’ve sustained. Was he paralyzed? Had he been amputated in some way? 

It was Gaerion who answered him. “The feeling in your limbs will return in the coming days,” the Healer said. “As the Prince told you, you have awoken earlier than I anticipated. But you are doing very well, especially given the circumstances.” 

Thorin wasn’t sure to what ‘circumstances’ Gaerion was referring, and the Healer didn’t seem inclined to elaborate. Nor did it feel like the proper time to explain. He would ask Legolas about it later. For now he was content to drink in the sight of the Elf. He would’ve reached out to take his hand if he could. Once more, Legolas seemed to understand his desire, for he was the one who took Thorin’s hand in his own and gently held it. Gaerion was once more speaking to the Prince in the melodious tones of their tongue. Legolas inclined his head towards the Healer, listening quietly. When Gaerion was done, Legolas nodded. The Healer bowed before the King under the Mountain and soundlessly left the room, Thorin hardly noticing his departure. 

“Staring is quite rude, King under the Mountain,” Legolas said, his tone light and his eyes laughing as he looked back at Thorin. Throughout Gaerion’s murmured discussion, he’d held the Dwarf’s hand. Now he relaxed into a carven chair beside the bed that Thorin had not noticed until that moment. The chair was evidently of Elvish design with the familiar curlicues of the Woodland Realm and the Prince looked at home in it, as if he’d been sitting beside Thorin’s bed for days. 

“I am entitled,” Thorin answered, in the most kingly tone he could muster.

This made the Elf laugh and Thorin felt his heart lighten at the sound. Legolas was well and unharmed. He had somehow survived his final fight with Azog. Their forces had won the day. Erebor was reclaimed. For once, all seemed right in the world. Thorin had never felt more blessed. 

“Gaerion has gone to tell the others that you are awake,” Legolas explained. “We only have a few moments before they burst in here.”

The Elf spoke too soon, for just as he finished the door to Thorin’s room did burst open and his Company poured in, headed by Balin and Dwalin. Behind them came Dori, Nori and Ori. Then Bifur and Bofur. The door to Thorin’s bedroom was so wide that even Bombur could walk in easily. The Dwarves crowded around Thorin’s spacious bed, Balin and Dwalin on the left where Legolas sat, while the others stayed on the right. They were all talking loudly and excitedly, welcoming Thorin back to the land of the living and praising Mahal. Then Dain Ironfoot strode in and marched right up to his cousin’s bed. He embraced Thorin warmly, but carefully, mindful of Thorin’s injured side. 

“Good to see you awake, cousin,” Dain told him. “The Elves have been taking very good care of you,” he added, giving Legolas a warm look. “It is true what they say of Elvish Healers. Their skill is unmatched.” 

“So I have been told,” Thorin agreed, also glancing at Legolas. 

The Prince took the compliment to his race in stride, unperturbed by the sudden commotion and activity in the room. _He has grown used to being among Dwarves_ , Thorin realized.

Then Bilbo was beside him, pushing to the front of the bed, where Dain made room for him. 

“Bilbo!” Thorin exclaimed. He was overjoyed to see the Hobbit. Bilbo was looking quite princely in his new clothes, most of which were of Dwarvish design with some touches of the Lake-town finery that had been gifted to the Company on their way to Erebor. 

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, gripping the Dwarf’s hand (which Legolas had released). “It is so very good to see you,” the Hobbit said sincerely. He looked so happy that Thorin thought he might weep again, but at least this time, the Halfling would be weeping tears of joy. “I told you Legolas would know what to do.” 

The comment made Thorin look at the Prince again. It piqued his curiosity. Indeed, what _had_ Legolas done? Were those the ‘circumstances’ to which Gaerion had referred? 

“Uncle!” 

Kili’s voice broke through the crowd and Thorin’s heart leapt into his throat. The events of Ravenhill came back to him in a rush as Kili entered the room, everyone easily making way for the young Prince. Dimly, Thorin was aware of Tauriel following more sedately in Kili’s wake, though she lingered near the entrance and did not approach his bed. But Thorin’s focus was on his nephew who showed none of Dain Ironfoot’s restraint as he all but launched into Thorin and hugged his uncle fiercely. Thorin felt the pain in his side spike acutely, but all it served to remind him was that he was alive. Then Kili was openly weeping on his chest, still holding him tightly. A hush fell over the room at this heartfelt and emotional display. Dwarves were not prone to showing such emotion – it was often perceived as a sign of weakness – but no one would comment on that now, and everyone understood Kili’s reaction. Thorin wished he could comfort his nephew in some way, but his body would not cooperate.

“It’s all right,” he said softly. “It’s all right.” 

“It’s not,” Kili said, finally lifting his face to look at his uncle. “It’s not all right,” he repeated, his face wet with tears. “But it will get better.”

Thorin could feel his own tears rising. What must have it been like for Kili these past few days? To lose his brother like that? To be so close to losing his uncle as well? And what if Thorin had not pulled through? Kili would’ve been the youngest in the line of Durin to ever take the throne. 

“I think that’s enough for one day.” 

The commanding voice of Gandalf the Grey broke the sudden silence in the room. 

“The King under the Mountain needs his rest,” the wizard went on, coming into Thorin’s line of sight. He was dressed in his customary grey robes, though they were considerably cleaner and brighter than when Thorin had seen him last. The wizard was also in good health, smiling kindly at Thorin and carrying a new staff that the Dwarf-King did not recognize. “You can all visit him again tomorrow when he has regained more of his strength,” Gandalf concluded. 

There were murmurs of assent and then the company began saying their good-byes. Dain gripped Thorin on the shoulder as he said, “I _will_ see you again tomorrow, cousin.”

“Be sure of it,” Thorin told him good-naturedly. 

The Lord of the Iron Hills also gripped Legolas briefly on the shoulder as he passed, since the Elf has chosen to remain seated and in the background of the joyful (and tearful) reunions. 

“I will also be back,” Bilbo said brightly. 

As Bilbo spoke, Thorin saw out of the corner of his eye Dwalin speaking to Legolas. His old friend had a much more relaxed demeanor towards the Woodland Prince, his body language hinting at the first signs of friendship. Thorin couldn’t hear their exchange, but Legolas was nodding in agreement to whatever Dwalin was saying. _It has only been six days_ , Thorin thought, _but already much has changed_. Balin also joined their conversation and the councilor tapped Legolas once on the arm before taking his leave. That action did not surprise Thorin since Balin had been fond of Legolas from the start.

Thorin missed most of what Bilbo was saying to him, and this was clear to Bilbo as well when Thorin didn’t react to his words. But the little Hobbit didn’t take offense, attributing Thorin’s distraction to fatigue and too much excitement from his well-wishers. 

“Well, then,” Bilbo concluded, hands clasped behind his back. “Better get your rest,” he advised. “You’re in very good hands.” 

“That is becoming a familiar refrain,” Thorin agreed.

Kili was the last to leave and he seemed very reluctant to do so. The young Prince turned to Legolas and to Thorin’s surprise suddenly hugged the Elf. Legolas was much less surprised by the action and embraced Kili warmly in return. 

“Did I not tell you he would be fine?” the Elf asked softly, but Thorin was able to catch his words. 

Kili nodded, still overcome with emotion. “Yes,” he said at last with a deep breath. “Yes, you did,” he repeated. He looked the Elf squarely in the eye. “Thank you, Legolas,” he said sincerely. 

The Elf nodded, his right hand on Kili’s shoulder, which he squeezed gently. “Why don’t you sit with your uncle for a little while?” he suggested, sensing Kili’s reluctance to leave.

“I cannot,” Kili said with obvious disappointment. “Balin says that the delegation from Lórien has arrived.” 

“Let me deal with them,” the Elf Prince offered. “I know Haldir of Lórien well.” He was already standing up, clearly not going to take ‘no’ for an answer. He was also maneuvering Kili to take his seat and the young Dwarf did not resist. “Stay a while,” he said again. “I will return later,” he told Thorin, touching the Dwarf on his hand before leaving.

Now that he was alone with his nephew, Thorin found that he didn’t know what to say. Kili seemed to be of a like mind, sitting quietly and deep in thought. 

“I’m sorry,” Kili said suddenly. Before Thorin could ask ‘What for?’ his nephew rushed ahead, “I didn’t mean to crush you like that. Are you in pain? Should I get you something?” 

“No, no. I’m fine,” Thorin assured him, even though his left side was throbbing. It was a dull kind of pain that he knew would subside. They fell into another silence, Kili wondering what was appropriate conversation and Thorin with a million questions that he wanted to ask. He settled for, “How have you been?” 

Kili considered this. “Busy,” he said at last. “I’ve been keeping myself busy.” 

_Keeping the mind and body occupied prevents one from drowning in grief_ , Thorin thought. He would have done the same.

“There’s been a lot to do,” Kili went on. “The rebuilding and reconstruction has begun, most of it overseen by Dain and Dwalin. We’re also working on a system to drive out the smell of the dragon. Dori has been spearheading that. Bombur has been living in the counting room. He’s cataloguing the treasure hoard. Bifur and Bofur are helping him, of course, though how much help they are is questionable,” Kili added. The comment made Thorin smile. 

“And more and more of our kin arrive every day. They’re coming from everywhere: the Grey Mountains, the Blue Mountains, and the cities of men. Some of the Ironhill dwarves want to stay when Dain returns. It looks like Dain will give them leave.” Kili’s eyes were shining as he looked at his uncle. “We have a _home_ , Thorin,” he said, as though he finally understood what the word ‘home’ meant. “A home,” he repeated in wonder.

All his life Kili had considered the Blue Mountains to be his home. The colony was all the young Dwarf Prince had known. It was a good home, peaceful and prosperous. But Kili had never understood what it meant to be displaced, what it meant to live in exile. How could he when he had been born into that world and had not experienced anything else? But now, exploring the great Dwarf city of Erebor, witnessing and partaking in the slow rebuild to restore its greatness, he was beginning to grasp all that had been taken from them: their history, their heritage, their tradition. All around him, he was surrounded by the richness of their past that had been lost to him, that had been lost to _all_ of them.

Thorin nodded at Kili’s wonder, too moved by his nephew’s words to say anything. “And what of our allies?” he questioned after a long moment. “How fare the men of Lake-town?” 

“They too have begun rebuilding their lives,” Kili answered. “They’ve settled in the city of Dale. We are also helping them with manageable shelter for the winter, as are the Elves,” he added. “I understand that when the weather improves, some of the townsfolk want to return to Esgaroth and build another city upon the Long Lake. But most of the townsfolk will stay in Dale with Bard as their ruler.”

“And the Elves?” Thorin asked, after another moment had passed. It seemed rude not to inquire after Thranduil’s people since he was being attended to by both the Elvenking’s son and the realm’s most skilled healer. 

At this, Kili grew uncomfortable and his reaction caught Thorin’s attention.

“Thranduil is well?” Thorin prodded. The possibility that the Elvenking may have fallen during the battle had not even occurred to him. Whatever he might think of the Elf Lord, he knew of the Elvenking’s prowess in battle. 

“The Elvenking is well,” Kili hedged. 

“But?” 

Kili leaned forward conspiratorially. Thorin felt the urge to mirror the action if he’d been able to do so.

“I don’t know the details,” Kili admitted straight away, piquing Thorin’s curiosity even more. Why was his nephew being so mysterious? “No one does, except for maybe Gandalf. Thranduil knows, of course. Legolas. Gaerion. But beyond that tight circle…” he trailed off. 

“What are you talking about?” Thorin asked, trying not to sound impatient. 

Kili hesitated. “I don’t know if I’m the right person to tell you this,” he said.

“Well, you cannot stop now,” Thorin admonished him. 

“Oh, all right,” Kili agreed with a vague air of reluctance. “Do you know what Legolas did on Ravenhill?” 

Thorin’s full attention was on his nephew in an instant. _This_ was information that he most desperately wanted to know. “No,” he said slowly.

“Nor do I,” Kili replied, to Thorin’s silent frustration. “Only Bilbo was present and he’s being very tight-lipped about it.” He paused. “But Legolas did _do_ something,” he said quietly, almost to himself. Then he looked at Thorin directly as he said, “Legolas saved you.” He paused again. “But it’s cost him something. Something important. Thranduil was furious. He wanted to bring Legolas back to Mirkwood immediately, but Gandalf advised against it, as did Gaerion.”

“Bring him back?” Thorin repeated. He was captivated by his nephew’s story, but he couldn’t quite follow all of it.

“Legolas was very ill,” Kili explained, realizing that he’d forgotten an important detail. “After Ravenhill. Whatever he did made him very ill. We brought him back to Erebor where Gaerion looked after him, looked after both of you. Thranduil wouldn’t leave his side. And no one was allowed in his room except Gaerion. Not even Gandalf.” Kili paused. “For a while, I thought you both weren’t going to make it,” he admitted with a shudder. “It looked bad. But then on the third day, Legolas woke up from whatever trance he was in. And he regained his strength so quickly! By the fourth day, he was up and about like nothing had happened at all. He was confident that you’d be all right and he’s been sitting with you ever since.” 

The young Dwarf Prince sat back. “I believed Legolas when he told me that you’d be all right,” he said quietly. “And yet, I was still so afraid.”

Thorin was left speechless, trying to process everything that Kili had told him. His mind couldn’t fathom what Legolas had done to save him. It had obviously cost the Elf Prince a great deal. But Legolas had looked fine when Thorin had awoken. He had even noticed how well Legolas had looked, but perhaps that had been his own deep relief at seeing the Elf. He recalled Gaerion’s quiet admonished words in the Sindar tongue and the exchange took on a new meaning. 

“I should let you rest,” Kili said, reaching forward and covering his uncle’s hand with his own. “I’m so very glad to see you awake.” 

And though Thorin was starting to feel a little fatigued, he said, “Stay. I would like your company.”

Kili, who had been about to stand up, relaxed back into the chair. “All right,” he agreed. He didn’t want to leave either. He was content just to be in the same room as his uncle. He sat with Thorin long after his uncle had drifted off to sleep and Legolas had returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is entering its third and final phase. I've removed the chapter count, not because I don't know how the story will end (I know _exactly_ how this story will end), but because I'm going to let the writing run its course. And if you're cursing me over the canonical character death, here is my reasoning: 
> 
> 1\. Fili, my poor little lion, was never going to survive the Battle of the Five Armies.  
> 2\. Kili, the golden Prince, was always going to survive the Battle of the Five Armies.  
> 3\. Thorin was 50-50. 
> 
> I found, however, that returning to this pairing after two years that I'm not ready to let it go. So, Thorin and Legolas are going to get proper closure because they deserve it.


	21. Chapter 21

Thorin’s recovery took many months. He never regained his full strength from before his confrontation with Azog, as there was a noticeable weakness in his left side where Azog had delivered what should have been a fatal blow. In time, Thorin would learn to favor his right side in battle and to better protect his left side, so that his skills remained undiminished. Nonetheless, Thorin would stay hale and strong until the end of his days. He would be known as a wise and just ruler, uniting the seven dwarf kingdoms of old. The dragon sickness could no longer touch him and it was believed that Thorin had forever broken the strain of gold sickness in the line of Durin through his own stubborn will. Indeed, his heir and nephew Kili, never felt the stirrings of gold lust, and nor would the Dwarf-Kings after him. 

Erebor would once again become a center of commerce in the north, its wealth and riches extending to the rebuilt city of Dale and the new town upon the Long Lake, which was built far from the bones where Smaug fell. The old town became a graveyard. Though many riches were to be found in the bottom of the lake where the old town once stood, since numerous jewels and gold coins had formed a second skin on the wyrm as Smaug had luxuriated in his treasure hoard for decades, none dared dive to recover those lost treasures. It was said that the area surrounding the old Lake-town was cursed, and it was true that nothing would grow on the banks of the old town or swim in Smaug’s watery grave. 

During Thorin’s long convalescence, it was Legolas and Gaerion who primarily attended to him. As Thorin regained his strength, he saw less and less of the healer. When the Elves deemed Thorin out of danger (for Thorin was still uncertain what ‘danger’ he was in), Gaerion returned to Mirkwood at the end of the second month with much praises and thanks from the dwarves. The Company would’ve showered him with treasure if they could, but the healer would not accept anything for his services. 

“It has been an honor, King under the Mountain,” Gaerion said to Thorin on the day he took his leave. “May my time here be the start of a peaceful friendship between our kingdoms.” 

“That is guaranteed,” Thorin replied, his eyes briefly flitting to the Elven Prince who stood by Gaerion’s side. “Here,” he said, extending his hand. “Please take it,” he said, referring to the gold brooch with an emerald in its center that he held in his hand. “You cannot refuse a token from the King,” he added, when Gaerion hesitated. 

The healer gave the King under the Mountain a faint smile as he picked up the brooch. It was of dwarvish design, filled with the angular patterns of Erebor and bore the highest craftsmanship. 

“The brooch marks you as a Dwarf-friend,” Thorin explained. “You and your kin will be welcome in any Dwarf city or colony that you visit. Any Dwarf that you should come upon will know of the great service that you have performed. I am in your debt.” 

“You do me great honor, King under the Mountain,” Gaerion said with a low bow. “This gift will be treasured always.” 

“I shall see Gaerion out,” Legolas told Thorin when the formal exchange and farewells were concluded. 

Later that evening as Legolas was changing the bandages on Thorin’s side (his wound had been severe and was taking an extraordinarily long time to heal), Thorin shifted restlessly, unintentionally making the job more difficult for the Elf. 

Finally, Legolas sighed. “Should I ask Gaerion to return?” he asked, glancing at the Dwarf. 

“No,” Thorin said, but he shifted again. At the Prince’s pointed look, he sighed as well. “I don’t like you seeing me like this,” he admitted in a low voice. 

Legolas hid a smile as he finished securing the bandage, covering it with the Dwarf’s tunic and then drawing the bed sheet up over Thorin. Then, he also began to prepare for bed. 

“That is a sweet thought,” he said, removing his leather vambraces. “But it has already been two months.” 

“Two months of lying uselessly in this bed,” Thorin added with an audible grunt. 

Legolas had to hide another smile as he unbuttoned his forest green jerkin. “You’ve hardly been useless,” he countered. 

It was true. By the start of the second month, Thorin had been conducting the business of running Erebor from his bedchamber. A steady stream of councilors and advisors would enter his bedroom and make their reports. Formal council meetings had been held in Thorin’s spacious bedroom. Legolas remembered the time, about three weeks ago, when Thorin had silently pleaded through his eyes for the Prince to save him from the tedium of the latest mining report. The Dwarf had patted the place beside him on the bed, indicating that the Elf should sit. Legolas, who had been standing on the other side of the bed, had arched an imperious brow, which Thorin had translated as a refusal. The Elf Prince would not break decorum during a council meeting, not with everyone present. But then, to Thorin’s surprise, Legolas had removed his boots and elegantly stretched out beside Thorin on his bed. Delighted, Thorin had reached for his hand and held it for the remainder of the meeting. A scandalous murmur had gone through the council members and advisors, and amused looks were exchanged by the members of the Company who had been present. Later that night, Thorin and Legolas had had a good laugh about it, though Thorin did not laugh half as much as the Elf since laughing still caused him pain in his side. By that time, he’d already managed to convince Legolas to share his bed. 

“It is big enough for two,” Thorin had argued at the end of the first month. 

“It is big enough for four,” Legolas had corrected. “Probably five.” 

Now Legolas slipped under the covers beside him. Thorin would’ve turned on his side to look at the Elf if he could, but lateral movement was still proving difficult. Nevertheless, he’d grown used to sleeping next to the Elf, often lulled by Legolas’s unique woodland scent. He’d even grown accustomed to the strange manner of Elves sleeping with their eyes open. He was no longer disconcerted by it and in fact, could tell when the Elf was truly asleep – not just by the Prince’s even breathing – but by the slightly unfocused glaze his eyes took. Thorin had also learned in this short time that Legolas was a very light sleeper and woke up fully alert. There was no chance of anyone sneaking up on them with the Prince in the same room as him. Not that they were in any danger in Erebor. In the safety of his own bedroom, Thorin slept like the dead. It was a far cry from the alertness he had shown during the long journey to Erebor. 

Legolas shifted over so that he was on his side facing the Dwarf. He propped his head up on his hand, one hand trailing on Thorin’s chest as he looked down at the Dwarf. He’d noticed how listless Thorin had become of late. It was no coincidence that as Thorin regained his strength, he was also becoming more dissatisfied with remaining in bed. Indeed, Legolas doubted he would be able to maintain Thorin’s bed rest for much longer. 

“If our positions were reversed,” the Elf began. “I trust that you would look after me. I would not mind that you would see me in a weakened state. It is to be expected after such a grievous injury. There is no shame in it.” 

Thorin caught his eye just then and there was a glint in it that made the Prince slightly wary. Had he unknowingly walked into one of the Dwarf’s tricks? 

“There is no shame in it,” Thorin agreed, stilling the Elf’s hand on his chest with his own. “Our races differ in many respects,” he went on. “And yet in some things we are remarkably similar.” 

The Elf arched a brow, indicating that Thorin should continue. 

“Dwarves are hardy,” Thorin explained. “We do not get sick, not the way men do. Elves are equally resilient. You do not fall prey to illness and you heal much swifter than the mortal races.” 

Here Thorin paused and Legolas immediately understood the direction of their conversation. It was a topic that he had managed to avoid for two months, but Thorin was being especially clever tonight. 

“And yet,” the Dwarf said slowly. “And yet I have heard that you were very ill shortly after the battle ended.” 

“Who has told you this?” Legolas asked without rancor. 

Thorin wondered whether it should matter where the information came from but he replied, “Kili. On the day that I awoke.” 

The Prince looked contemplative. “And here you have managed to not bring up this topic for two months,” he said, somewhat impressed. 

“It was not for lack of desire,” Thorin informed him. “I was hoping _you_ would bring it up. You do not deny that you were ill?” When the Elf did not respond, Thorin pressed on. “Will you not tell me what happened on Ravenhill?”

Thorin suddenly felt the weight of the Elf’s gaze, silently marveling at how Legolas could do that. When he chose to the Elven Prince could exert his years over Thorin, making the Dwarf-King feel like little more than a child. Rationally, he knew that Legolas was considered young by the standards of his own race, especially when there were Elf Lords who were older than time. But though he may have been thought of as young, to the Dwarf he seemed to be an ancient being belied only by his eternally youthful appearance. Thorin had learned that while wisdom came from age, for some it was innate. Legolas was such a being. His wisdom far exceeded his age. 

“Yes,” the Prince said seriously. “I will tell you what happened on Ravenhill, for it is a grave matter that concerns us both.” 

“But?” Thorin prodded, noting the finality in the Elf’s tone. 

“But not yet,” Legolas finished, his tone softening but not quite pleading. “Will you wait awhile longer?” 

Thorin exhaled loudly. “Yes,” he said, reigning in his frustration. (He was also learning how hard it was to remain angry or even irritated at the Prince for an extended period of time.) “But not for much longer,” he added, doing his best to sound assertive. 

“No, not much longer,” Legolas agreed, resting his head on Thorin’s shoulder. 

“Does it trouble you so much?” Thorin asked, purposely keeping his question vague. “I would share your concerns.” 

“It does not trouble me as much as it should,” Legolas admitted. “And you will share my concerns soon enough.” Thorin could feel, rather than see, the Elf smile. “But it troubles my father greatly, and Gaerion as well. Haldir has also expressed his misgivings.” 

“Haldir of Lórien?” Thorin said a bit sharply. “You spoke to him of this?” 

“Do not be upset.” Legolas placated the Dwarf with a kiss, his hand slipping underneath Thorin’s tunic. “Haldir is an old friend and mentor. His counsel is valuable.” 

Thorin had not interacted much with Haldir, though the Guardian of the Golden Wood had made a strong impression on him. The delegation from Lórien had arrived within a week of the battle’s conclusion, sent swiftly by the Lady of the Golden Wood. Thorin had heard from Gandalf how the White Council had fought with the Ringwraiths in the Dol Guldur, how the so-called Necromancer had been revealed to be their Enemy of old. It made him shudder to think that the two armies bearing down on Erebor had been under the command of that ancient evil. So much had been at stake on that day, more than he had realized at the time. How differently things may have turned out if he had been unable to overcome the dragon sickness. He could not fathom how much would have been lost.

Concerned for Erebor and the surrounding kingdoms, the Lady Galadriel whilst recovering in her home, had sent a delegation to report on the outcome of the battle. Thorin had also learned from Legolas that the elves of Lórien were closer to their woodland kin than the elves of Imladris. 

“Lothlórien is as insular and secretive as Imladris is open and inviting,” Legolas had told him one day during lunch, which the Elf always took in Thorin’s bedroom. 

“And Mirkwood?” Thorin had asked. 

“My people are somewhere in between,” Legolas had explained. “Though with my father’s tendencies, we lean more towards insular.” 

“You would take your people in the opposite direction,” Thorin had mused. “You would wish them to be more open.” 

Legolas had inclined his head in acknowledgement, slicing a golden pear for both of them. “I understand my father’s concerns,” he had said, “for we are living in dark times and I fear that there are darker times ahead. Perhaps when that darkness is defeated…” the Elf had trailed off. 

And so the Guardian of the Golden Wood and the Lórien delegation had been welcomed at Erebor, staying at the dwarf city under the King’s hospitality for a week. Thorin had still been quite weak during that time, and Haldir had only made two short, formal visits to pay his respects to the King; the first had been shortly after his arrival and the second one prior to the delegation’s departure. Thorin had found the Guardian of the Golden Wood to be imperious. Standing tall and proud in his shimmering cloak of Lórien grey, there was a slight air of condescension about the Elf, though he remained respectful at all times. There was something in the Guardian’s bearing that reminded Thorin of the Woodland King. This resemblance grew stronger when he saw how Haldir’s demeanor changed in the presence of the Woodland Prince. Legolas’s assessment that Haldir was an ‘old friend’ was evident to all. 

Haldir spent most of his time with the Elven Prince when Legolas was not tending to Thorin or keeping the Dwarf-King company. The Guardian of the Golden Wood was not at ease in Erebor. He had not had any dealings with the _naugrim_ in countless centuries, for certainly no dwarf would venture into the Golden Wood. They were fearful of the place, believing it to be cursed by an Elf Witch of great power. Haldir bristled at the thought. The Lady Galadriel was no Elf Witch, though she was a being of immense power among the Eldar.

Thus, it was with surprise and relief that Haldir and the delegation were welcomed into Erebor by none other than the Prince of the Woodland Realm. The Prince had been accompanied by a white-haired dwarf named Balin, whom Haldir soon learned was the King’s most trusted advisor, and the councilor’s brother, a grim warrior by the name of Dwalin. Later, Haldir had learned from Legolas how valiantly Dwalin had acquitted himself during the Battle of the Five Armies and Haldir’s respect for the _naug_ grew. The Guardian had been appropriately formal in his greetings to the two dwarves, but it was for the Woodland Prince that he had saved his warmest greeting of all. 

“It was my intention to travel to Eryn Lasgalen to see you and your father after my visit here,” Haldir told the Prince on that first day. 

Legolas smiled at Haldir’s use of the old name for Greenwood the Great. “I hope you will still make that visit,” Legolas replied, slipping his arm through Haldir’s as they began a tour of Erebor with Balin and Dwalin as their escorts. “My father will be pleased to see you.” 

Haldir gave him a sidelong glance. “Your father is never pleased to see a delegation from Lórien,” he reprimanded gently. 

“He will be pleased to see _you_ ,” Legolas repeated. “You do not visit us often enough.”

“I could say the same of you,” Haldir countered. “When were you in Lórien last?” 

“For the celebration of _Ethuil_ not five years past,” Legolas answered swiftly. 

Haldir pursed his lips, knowing the Prince to be right. By contrast, he had not set foot in Thranduil’s realm for nearly two centuries. 

“Very well,” he agreed. “I will pay my respects to your father and bring him tidings from the Golden Wood. Will you accompany me on that journey?” 

“I cannot,” Legolas said with some reluctance. “I will visit my father soon,” he went on before Haldir could inquire why that was so. “But I cannot leave Erebor just yet.” 

“This has something to do with the King under the Mountain,” Haldir said perceptively.

This time it was the Prince who gave the Guardian a sidelong glance, slipping into their language. “Yes,” he admitted, mindful of their company. “But let us speak of that later.” 

That ‘later’ proved to be much later, for it was not until the eve of Haldir’s departure for the Woodland Realm that the subject arose again. By then, Haldir had a very good idea of what had transpired, though neither Gaerion nor Legolas had mentioned it to him directly. The dwarves, as well, remained in the dark (as well they should, the Guardian had thought), but his conversation with the Halfling from the Shire had proven to be very enlightening. Bilbo had been present on Ravenhill, after all. Though the hobbit didn’t understand Legolas’s actions, Haldir quickly grasped their significance from the hobbit’s descriptions. No wonder Thranduil had flown into a rage. Legolas’s actions had also displeased Haldir greatly. He could not understand the Prince’s reasoning and was resolved to speak to him about it before he left. Something _had_ to be done.

Haldir was finally able to corner the Prince in the latter’s own chambers after the evening meal. Legolas had invited him for a nightcap and it was truly the last time they would be able to speak privately before the Lórien delegation departed. Haldir was wandering about the Prince’s room – a very lavish room – while waiting for Legolas to arrive. As usual, the Prince was tending to the King under the Mountain before retiring for the night. Haldir heard the door open, but didn’t turn around. He was standing in front of a painting. He waited for Legolas to join him and in a few moments the Prince was standing by his side. 

“I believe it is Thorin’s grandmother,” Legolas said of the painting. 

Haldir made a non-committal sound. 

“Would you believe,” Legolas said, turning to the other elf, “that I have never met a Dwarf-woman?” 

“That is not surprising,” Haldir answered, moving away from the painting. “The _naugrim_ are very secretive of their women. They almost never travel abroad, and when they do, they are so alike in appearance and garb that they are often mistaken for males.” The Guardian crinkled his nose at the thought.

“I did not think you so well versed in such matters,” Legolas teased him, also turning away from the painting. He joined Haldir on the sofa, taking a seat beside the Guardian. 

Haldir gave the Prince a pointed look, but otherwise let the other Elf’s teasing slide. He poured a golden liquid from a small decanter that he had brought and handed the silver cup to the Prince. Legolas thanked him and then inhaled the sweet, honey fragrance of the drink. He arched a questioning eyebrow. 

“You have been saving this,” he observed. 

“I thought the journey would be trying,” Haldir replied. 

“Then I hope you have been able to revive yourself in Erebor,” Legolas said, watching as Haldir poured himself a cup of the golden liquid.

“My stay has been adequate,” Haldir acquiesced. 

At this the Prince let out a musical laugh. “You are such a snob, Haldir!” he said, but there was no mistaking the affection in his voice. 

“This place makes me uneasy,” Haldir said seriously. “It is a wonder that you may remain so relaxed in these walls of stone and with such company.” 

“Erebor is not some dirty troll cave or filthy goblin dwelling,” Legolas gently countered. “It is true that there is a long way to go before the Dwarves restore it to its glory, but they have removed most of the dragon’s smell and have brought more light into the mountain. As for the company…” Here Legolas paused and gave Haldir a half smile. “They take some getting used to. You would find their ways rough and coarse, but once you get to know them they possess a certain charm.” 

“A Dwarf, charming?” Haldir repeated in disbelief. 

Legolas laughed again. “Thorin is not like his kin,” he persevered. 

“I will grant you that,” Haldir grudgingly admitted. He held up his cup in a toast, which the Prince reciprocated. “To what shall we drink?” 

“To defeating the Enemy,” Legolas said. “May we continue to have the strength to keep the darkness at bay until the final confrontation.” 

Haldir’s expression was grave. “To defeating the Enemy,” he repeated. 

The miruvor that the Guardian had brought was a reviving cordial and Haldir felt immediately refreshed as the first mouthful went down his throat. He glanced at the Prince and caught Legolas’s look of relaxed satisfaction as he too was revived by the drink. 

“It has been some time since I have drunk miruvor,” the Prince said, placing his cup on the table. The drink was far more common in Imladris than either Lothlórien or Mirkwood. 

“I thought you would appreciate it,” Haldir smoothly answered. 

Legolas gave him a knowing look. “Indeed,” he agreed. “But perhaps you also thought that it would make me more receptive to certain matters that you wish to discuss,” he added, keeping his tone light. 

Haldir took the bait, silently admiring the Prince’s discernment. It made him glad to know that Legolas would not evade the difficult topics on his last night. 

“There is a matter I wish to discuss,” Haldir acknowledged with a slight tilt of his head. “It concerns that _naug_.” There was no mistaking the derision in the Guardian’s tone, nor to whom he was referring. 

“I prefer the term _hadhod_ ,” Legolas continued in the same light manner. “It does not carry the negative connotations of the word _naug_.”

Haldir bristled slightly. “It is an accurate term,” he challenged. “They _are_ a stunted people, made without the knowledge of Eru. They are imperfect.” 

Legolas regarded his old friend silently. “All races are not without flaws,” he said after a moment. “Just as all races have their own strengths. The Eldar may be resilient against evil, but so too have the _hadhodrim_ resisted the corruption of the Enemy.”

This was true. For when Sauron had wrought the One Ring in secret, the three Elven rings did not bend to his will. Even now, two of those rings protected the Elven kingdoms of Imladris and Lothlórien. It was with some pride that Legolas thought of his father’s kingdom. Perhaps the Silvan folk were the most resilient of all, since they did not have a ring of power to protect them. The Dwarves as well had resisted the power of Sauron’s call. Legolas had heard from Gandalf how Thrain had been captured by the ‘Necromancer’ and so the last remaining Dwarf ring of power had been lost. It was only the nine Kings of Men who had been corrupted completely by the Dark Lord. And now those kings of old once again walked the earth as Ringwraiths, deformed and bound to the Dark Lord’s will. 

“Dwarves may be stubborn and secretive,” Legolas went on. “But we Elves can be prideful and jealous. I would not claim to be a perfect being.” 

At this statement, Haldir laughed but it was not an unkind sound. He reached out, running his fingers along the delicate braid that ran behind the Prince’s pointed ear. “And yet, you, fair one,” he said affectionately, “may be the most perfect one of us all. No wonder Thranduil cherishes you so.” 

Legolas leaned into Haldir’s touch, smiling softly. There was a time, when Legolas had been a young elfling, that the Guardian had braided his hair. 

It was at this moment, when the Prince’s guard was down that Haldir asked bluntly, “Are the rumors true? Did you do what I think you did to save that Dwarf?” 

Legolas did not insult Haldir’s intelligence by pretending to feign ignorance. He took a deep breath before answering, “Yes. I did.” He looked the other elf in the eye and was met with confusion, horror and beneath all that, a real fear. 

Haldir stood up abruptly with none of his customary grace. “What were you _thinking_?” he hissed, beginning to pace in the sitting area of Legolas’s room.

“I was thinking that I could not let Thorin die,” Legolas said simply. 

Haldir stopped his agitated pacing and stood opposite the Prince, in front of the low table that separated them, his eyes a thunderous grey. “A Dwarf!” he exploded. “You would put a Dwarf’s life before you own!” 

“Would you not have done the same for me?” 

“I would do anything for you!” Haldir said, still visibly angry. “But this is _not_ the same. I have known you almost your whole life. You are precious to me. What history do you have with this Dwarf that can compare? You met but a few scant months ago, when he was a _prisoner_ in your father’s dungeons. You cannot possibly tell me that your feelings for him run so deep? That you are _in love with him_?”

When the Prince remained silent, Haldir’s incredulity and horror grew. “Ai, Elbereth!” he exclaimed in exasperation and dismay. 

Legolas stood up as well and crossed to where Haldir was standing, now looking dejected. He took both of the Guardian’s hands in his own and held them firmly. “Calm yourself,” he said gently. 

“I do not know how you can ask that of me when you put yourself at such risk!” Haldir said, still worked up. He gripped Legolas’s hands in turn. 

“I am in no immediate risk,” Legolas said, in the same placating tone. 

“No,” Haldir agreed, his expression still stormy. “The immediate risk has passed. It is a wonder that either of you survived that at all.”

“Thorin possesses a strong will,” Legolas said. “As do I. I was confident that it would succeed.” 

“But he is mortal, Legolas,” the Guardian said, whispering the word ‘mortal’ as though it were taboo. 

Legolas’s expression grew strained. Mortality was a topic that had often crossed his mind in recent days. 

“The mortal races are not like us,” Haldir continued in the same hushed tone. “Did you not think that perhaps that was Thorin’s time? Who are we to judge whether one of them should live or die?” 

“You are right, Haldir,” Legolas conceded, leading the other elf back to the sofa. “I made the decision for him. And perhaps my actions were rash, but they cannot be taken back now.” 

“What will you do?” Haldir asked, as he sat down again beside the Prince. 

“When Thorin is strong enough, we will return to Mirkwood. Gaerion and the other healers will perform the ritual of _Aderthad_.”

“If the Lady Galadriel knew of your plight,” Haldir interrupted. “She would send the best healers of Lórien to assist you.” 

Legolas smiled. “That would be most appreciated,” he said sincerely. 

Haldir returned the Prince’s smile before his expression grew sober. “And if the ritual does not work?” he asked, the tension returning to his tone. Here the Prince shrugged, an uncharacteristic gesture for him – for Elves, in general. There was a hint of resignation in it that did not sit well with the Guardian.

“I do not know,” Legolas admitted. But when he looked at the Guardian, his keen blue eyes were sharp, and his expression was calm and collected. “Do not fear for me, Haldir. I do not believe that Thorin Oakenshield will lead to my ruin.” 

“Can you not see, fair one?” Haldir questioned, his hand once more tracing the fine braid at the Prince’s temple. “He already has.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin Translations: 
> 
> 1\. ethuil - spring  
> 2\. naugrim - dwarves  
> 3\. naug - stunted, dwarf  
> 4\. hadhod - dwarf  
> 5\. hadhodrim - dwarves, as a race  
> 6\. aderthad - to reunite, to make one again

**Author's Note:**

> Everything belongs to New Line Cinema, Tolkien and his estate. No offense is intended; no profit is being made.


End file.
